


Keep Calm and Carry On

by firewhiskey_ginger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Coming of Age, Dramedy, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Minor Character(s), Multi, Post-Hogwarts, Quidditch, Slow Burn, The Golden Trio Era, firewhiskey abounds, like really struggling, sabotage and trickery, struggling adults
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2018-12-17 00:58:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11840661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firewhiskey_ginger/pseuds/firewhiskey_ginger
Summary: Edie Lennox is in a rut. With no money, a shoddy flat, and no love-life, her joke of aCharmmagazine internship is the cherry on top. But will a chance interview with Quidditch superstar Oliver Wood earn her a journalism career? Or will life continue to get in the way?Dobby Winner for Best Original Character





	1. Take Two and Call Me in the Morning

**Author's Note:**

> *Edits 3/20/17* 
> 
> Hello! I am giving this fic some long-overdue edits and feel that it's finally ready to be cross-posted to AO3. (Also yes, I am my_voice_rising at HPFF and no I didn't steal this fic from anyone!) Please let me know what you think in a review ♥
> 
> Lovely banner by nala at The Dark Arts.

 

CHAPTER ONE

 ♔

Take Two and Call Me in the Morning

 

The Firewhiskey goes down like petrol. I grimace and Seamus slams his empty glass on the bar, whooping loudly. We congratulate each other with a stumbling high five. Then somebody is throwing their arm around my shoulders—Dean, leaning his temple against mine. His thick-rimmed glasses are tangling in my red hair, and I gently push his face away with my palm. But there’s nowhere for him to go. The pub is so crowded we’ve been bumping elbows with other Kestrels zealots all night. 

_“Why_ did we think the Poisoned Apple was a good idea?” Dean shouts to be heard. He doesn’t like crowds.

He’s right, though—practically the entire stadium has stampeded this way, already buzzing from overpriced Quidditch beer. I work here part-time and my manager, Angus, will usually slide us a few drinks under the table. Tonight, it’s far too busy for his charity.

I don’t reckon the Poisoned Apple has changed much since its opening, which a tarnished plaque claims to have been in 1484. The rusty chandeliers have never seen a Clearing Charm in their life and the walls are so cluttered with paintings that you can’t see the stains anymore. Monks, when tipsy, stumble into the frames of giggling Toulouse-Lautrec dancers.

Right now, it’s hard to see any of this with the crowd packed in, all decked in Kestrel green and gold. The wizard behind me sports a pointed green hat with dancing shamrocks that keeps poking me in the head. Glasses are clinking; people are shouting just to be heard by the person next to them. The tiny flames that float in jars over our heads are blurring, multiplying. 

Seamus has turned his back to us, and is leaning on the bar, chatting with a pretty brunette. Bold, considering his face is painted green.

“He’s found a live one,” Dean says, and I laugh louder than I need to. 

Seamus will flirt with anything with a pulse. The man thinks highly of himself, sure, but he believes that everybody should have some self-respect. He’s no womanizer, either. His Mum taught him better. (We’ve spent many a morning at her flat in Cork, after a night on the town. Mrs. Finnigan just smiles and shakes her head when we come staggering from sofas, footstools, bathroom floors, or wherever else had seemed a suitable bed, at the smell of her potato pancakes.) 

I look at Dean and try to roll my eyes, but I’m having a hard time controlling my face. Merlin. How many Firewhiskeys was that? Three? Four? Numbers are weird right now.

“Is ‘four’ in Roman numerals ‘VI’ or ‘XI?’” I bellow. 

(Seamus visibly winces. I’ve got some pipes on me, and he claims that my voice is the bane of his hungover existence.) 

“It’s ‘IV.’” Dean has long since accepted that I vocalize every thought that enters my head.

He’s diligently people-watching, a bit distracted from conversation. Usually he carries a little book of parchment and a quill that draws in pencil, charcoal or coloured ink. A birthday gift from yours truly. Back then he was a student at Antiphilus Institute for Visual Art. Good for the CV, bad for the bank account—it was mad what students were required to purchase! The artist’s quill cost me a week’s wages at my shoddy job cleaning a Diagon Alley hotel.

“Oh, he’s doing the hair thing!” Dean nudges me. 

I squint over to Seamus, who is pretending to pluck something from the pretty girl’s hair. There’s a thirty percent chance it will work. The girl smiles and touches his shoulder.

“And he sticks the landing,” Dean commentates, impressed.

Impressive indeed. The three of us are pretty disappointing in the romance department. A hot Friday night usually means sitting at my flat, where I’ve charmed a large two-way mirror to display live Quidditch matches. (Every once in awhile the magic goes wonky and the mirror gets crossed with another, somewhere in a dodgy Knockturn Alley flat.) Funny how Seamus and Dean suddenly wanted to be my friends, after learning about the mirror. Now Seamus fondly calls our little triad Fellas and Lady-Fella.

Speaking of Seamus, he’s disappeared, and so has the brunette. “Fast work!” I say, but then realization hits. “Oi! Where’s Lisa gone?”

“I forgot she was here,” he admits, searching the crowd for her annoyingly luminous blonde lock. “It’s weird that she’s come out.”

“She’s probably gone out to meet _Justin.”_ I say his name like it were an unsightly foot disease.

Dean rolls his eyes, because we’ve had this conversation before. “They’re getting married, Edie, you can’t keep her all to yourself.” 

I scowl and he ruffles my hair.

Lisa Turpin, my best friend since Hogwarts, rarely sees the insides of bars these days. Or anywhere but a yoga studio, her and Justin’s home, or St. Mungo’s. She’s a Mediwitch on night shifts, and is always so knackered that I rarely see her anymore.

“I just wanted _one_ night to hang out!” I’m whining like a child.

To be fair, Justin Finch-Fletchley and Lisa Turpin have been a long time coming. Their loins first started burning at Hogwarts, during our second go-around at a Seventh Year. Perhaps it was that everyone finally got to have a normal school year, after Harry Potter saved the world and all. Time for crushes, charming your hemline shorter, snogging between classes—all that bollocks taken for granted by everyone who _doesn’t_ have an Evil Lord threatening to take over. 

They never pursued anything, being awkward seventeen year-olds. But they met again at a dating event for Professional Witches and Wizards—which I will never let them live down—and the rest is history. 

For the last two years, to spend time with my best friend, I’ve had to plan lunches, or third-wheel it, or surprise her at work. He’s only just proposed and they’re already an old married couple.

“Maybe we could be one of those modern triads, and share a flat after they get married.” I’m only half-joking. 

Dean snorts something that sounds like “Co-dependent.”

“I miss the Golden Years, Dean.”

“I know.”

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”

“You’ve told me.”

With the air of someone drunkenly reciting a Shakespearean prologue I say, “Before she met Justin, we went out every night, stayed up until three in the morning, and went to our shoddy jobs at eight. Pot of coffee, pain-relieving potion, kip at five o’clock, bars at eight—rinse and repeat.”

Dean is not even listening.

“They were the most beautiful days of my life,” I sigh.

Reciting my drunken stories of yore is a tell-tale sign that it’s time to close my tab. I vaguely gesture to the bar and Dean nods. He’s glad for a reprieve, I’m sure. I can’t help my glance over the sea of Kestrel green. Maybe Lisa really _did_ go home. 

What an old maid.

Then again, maybe it’s not okay to be spending every single night in a bar as a 26 year-old.

There’s a tap on my shoulder. Lisa has returned, her blue eyes glittering—and that is not hyperbole. She’s one of the most stunning people on the planet, and is completely oblivious to the crowd that has just parted like the Red Sea to look at her. Though she denies it, I’m certain there’s some Veela blood in her family tree.

“Sorry, Justin got lost!” she shouts.

He’s standing behind her, looking very tall and important in his expensive lawyer’s suit. 

_“How_ did you possibly get lost?"

Lisa swats me. I know, no bickering in public. We’ve gone at it quite a few times. (“Edie, why didn’t you just put down the coffee mug and then check your watch?” “THANKS A LOT JUSTIN, I HADN’T THOUGHT OF THAT BUT SEEING AS HOW THERE IS HOT COFFEE ALL OVER MY LAP I REALLY APPRECIATE YOUR INSIGHT AND WILL TRY MY BEST TO AVOID THIS SITUATION IN THE FUTURE.”)

“Lennox!” He claps me on the shoulder, much like he would a fellow Ministry employee. “Wow, you’re still standing?”

“You’re still carrying that man-purse?” I counter, my tongue tripping over itself. His shoulder-bag is a particularly touchy subject. He only got one because all the other lawyers use them. I don’t think I’ve stopped taking the mickey out of him since day one.

Lisa pats his shoulder as he murmurs about the bag’s practical purposes. Dean comes to stand with us, nodding a hello to Justin. A tingly, drunken excitement appears in my belly. Our group is forming! Seamus, get back here and we can have the hangout of a lifetime! 

Then I notice Lisa wrapping her scarf around her slender neck. 

_“No!”_ I howl. Dean shoots me a look that says,  _Get ahold of yourself, mate._

“I’m sorry, Edie! I’ve got to be at St. Mungo’s in…” She checks her watch and sighs, “five hours.”

My mouth opens to protest. But level-headed Dean interjects, albeit with a distinct slurring of words, “Yeah, go get some rest! We’ll see you later.”  

As Justin’s arm moves around her waist, Lisa gives me the smile she always does: half amusement, half pity. Her slender-yet-somehow-muscular yoga arm squeezes me tightly. 

“Make good decisions, you lush.” 

We’ve been saying it since we began sneaking alcohol into Hogwarts. It started as an ironic mantra, because of course we _never_ did that. But I think she actually means it these days. 

“Stop by the pub this week,” I say, knowing full well she won’t.

She’s nice enough to at least nod, offering a half-hearted, “Definitely.” Then they turn and Apparate, the pop barely even audible in the clangor. The jealousy starts creeping in again. I am on the verge of sulking when, thankfully, Seamus materialises. 

Dean cracks a lopsided smirk; the brunette is nowhere to be found. “Well that was quick. Shot down already?”

In response Seamus flicks out a napkin, on which the girl has charmed her name. “Playing it cool, mate,” he says as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. I think the "i" in Amelia is dotted with a heart. 

“Wow, didn’t know Second-Years were allowed—” My insult is cut short. I’m staring in horror at the three shots of Firewhiskey that have floated over to us. “NO!” 

They hover in the middle of our group, mocking us.

“YES!” Seamus passes them out.

I put my face in my palm. The room is swimming even more, and I haven’t even taken the drink yet. “Seamus, I have my internship in the morning and—”

He throws his arms up in exasperation. “Where is your respect, Edie? Kenmare just beat Flanders—Merlin spit on their graves—and you _really_ don’t want to give them a proper celebration?” He sees my fading resilience and adds, “Besides, these were seven Sickles each.”

“And,” Dean interjects with a surprisingly logical tone, “you don’t exactly have to be on top of your game to make coffee runs.”

“Oi!” I punch him in the arm and he almost spills his drink. 

He’s right, though. _Charm_ magazine has quite possibly the worst internship program of any Magical publication. I applied for an editing position and was instead offered a stint for delivering messages, setting up snack tables for photo shoots, and basically being a glorified House Elf. Just thinking about it makes me angry. 

I could use a drink.

“You two are _enablers.”_ I point at them accusingly but I’m cracking a stupid grin which turns into a contagious laugh until we’re all doubled over. I can tell by Dean’s expression that he has no idea what’s so funny.

Seamus raises his glass in a toast. He always does this, but we lift our glasses all the same.

“To our adulthood!” he shouts and Dean lets out a whoop. “May we never have office jobs, may our futures be full of nights forgotten by morning, and most importantly, may we always get laid!”

Not sure how that last bit is working out, really, but we don’t mention that. We throw back the glasses. It tastes like it always does: a mixture of shame for being 26, a hybrid of unpaid intern and barkeep, with no love-life to mention, and getting sloshed at a bar virtually every night—and also certainty that I have the best mates in the world.

We’re all scowling and shaking our heads as if the taste will disappear. Seamus punches his fist into the air, shouting the first line of the Kestrels’ fight song: “God bless those fighting Kestrels, bally-ally-oh!”

And then the entire bar is singing in drunken unison. Everyone’s stamping their feet so hard that the chandeliers are rattling, spilling dust into our drinks. It’s amazing what Quidditch and alcohol will do for camaraderie. Our song ends and is followed by deafening cheering. Angus, exhausted barkeep and die-hard Kestrels fan, shouts, “Everyone wearing green gets a free round!” 

The bar goes mad. 

Oh yes. Tomorrow morning will be hell.


	2. The Job Thousands would Kill For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To be fair, _Charm_ isn’t the worst publication to intern for. It does promote young girls being strong, having opinions, and the like. Unfortunately those articles are wedged in-between the “Healthiest Snacks to Trim Fat” and “Ways to Make Him Say ‘Ahh’.”

CHAPTER TWO

 ♔

The Job Thousands would Kill For

 

To absolutely no one’s surprise, the next day my head feels like it’s undergoing the Cruciatus Curse. I’ve been staring at the same page the _Oracle Underground_ for thirty minutes.  It’s a trendy publication—a sort of news-zine—and so liberal that it toes the line of propaganda.  But the journalism is relevant, the writing is pithy, and I would give my arm for a job there.

Of course, they probably wouldn’t be very impressed with my current state.

“This is the last time I come to work hung over,” I vow, just like I did last week.

Squinting blearily, I try to make out the headlines in the watery morning sun that rarely graces my corner of the _Charm_ headquarters.  The tiny flame I’ve conjured is doing little to thaw my hands, and I breathe on them, huddled in my zipped parka.  If light to see by isn’t something _Charm_ values for its interns, then warmth certainly isn’t either.

The intern desks are crammed is in the dampest, dreariest area of the building, where we trade sinus infections and the flu like playing cards.  It’s very Charles Dickens.  A constant dripping sound, coming from God knows where, echoes in the quiet.  The trendy part of the building—the one you think of when you imagine _Charm—_ is reserved for those on payroll.  Its polished marble floors echo with the clicking of high heels and magical typewriters, like the drumbeat on a Viking ship.  Life-size photographs of waifish models dominate the walls.  They keep quiet, containing themselves to the occasional scoff at my carbohydrate-laden lunches. 

I try to make as many trips into the upstairs world as possible, lest I become completely vitamin-D deficient in the darkness.

Not helping my grim surroundings is my long-since dead potted plant.  A gift from my Mum, meant to brighten my desk, it barely lasted a week into my internship.  (I am the only Hufflepuff to ever receive a T in Herbology. Eventually Professor Sprout assigned me strictly to clear-up duty.)  For the last six months I’ve pretended to not notice the desiccated thing where it is shoved into a corner.

I glance at the hourglass on my desk.  Any minute now, someone will arrive with another menial task, and so I try to focus on the article written about the Female Goblin Coalition strike happening at Gringotts.

For the past several months, they’ve been protesting the bank for refusing them employment. Of course, it’s all under the table, and no Goblin in his right mind would actually admit that Gringotts wouldn’t hire them simply because they’re female.  But really, have you _ever_ seen a lady-Goblin at work?

In a corresponding photograph, Grimma Longfinger, the commanding voice for the Female Goblin Coalition, delivers a speech to a crowd of Goblins, witches and wizards alike.  She stands on a stack of wooden crates to address the crowd, who waves their wands overhead, forming sparkling messages in the air: _EQUAL RIGHTS FOR ALL._

If only _Charm_ would do some sort of coverage.  We have a politics section, technically, but it’s usually a story about the celebrity who donated to one charity or another.  The articles talk about Poppy Lockhart giving up meat, and how her skin is glowing because of it, rather than the actual animals she’s saving.

I try to imagine pitching an article on the FGC to Artie Ward, my internship advisor, who seems to think women’s heads are filled with body glitter rather than opinions.

I snort.  Yeah, that would go swimmingly.

Why a man like him works for _Charm_ —a magazine marketed towards women—is beyond me.  The rumour is that he was sacked from a men’s quarterly magazine and was only taken on here because he literally got on his knees and begged.

To be fair, _Charm_ isn’t the worst publication.  It does promote the idea of young girls being strong, having opinions, and the like.  Unfortunately, those kinds of articles are often wedged in-between the “Healthiest Snacks to Trim Fat” and “Ways to Make Him Say _Ahhh._ ”

Someone appears over my sad little desk, and I am more than pleased to see Theo Nott, one of the magazine’s photographers.  Like magic, the hangover is gone.  

At the sight of me he says, “Wow, late night?”

I hope that my smile implies that I was up doing something glamorous and sexy, rather than puking on the walk home with my completely platonic male friends arguing about who had to hold my hair back.

_“Wild,”_ I say.

Theo is absolutely stunning, and he knows it.  Usually I would find that kind of person unattractive out of spite, as if I could teach them a lesson by not giving them a second glance (at least when they were looking.)  But my window looks directly onto the brick wall of the next building.  It’s nice to have something else to stare at.  And I’ve heard more than one _Charm_ employee whispering about his exceptional bum.

Theo’s camera is, of course, slung over his shoulder. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without it.   “Have you seen Artie?  I have some proofs for him.”

_Probably trapped somewhere with his arm in a vending machine._  

But I shake my head and beam, “Nope!”

“Figures.”  Theo leans on my desk; I try to cross my legs sexily but kick him instead.

“Oh! Sorry—”

“Heard about the rally at Gringotts next month?”  He’s spotted my newspaper.  “Can’t wait to get it all on film.”

“Really!”  I can’t picture Theo, the bikini model photographer, giving a damn about women’s rights.  But I figure I’ll take my shot and, tuck my hair behind my ear, I say, “Well, I mean, maybe we could— _fuck!”_

An owl barrels onto my desk, knocking over my coffee, screeching and flapping its wings.  As I hastily try to clear the mess, Theo takes the parchment from its talons and rolls his eyes.  “Artie’s at my desk wondering where I am.  Of course.” 

“Classic Artie!”

Theo tilts his chin in a farewell. “See you later Edie.”

“Right, at the rally then! Bye, Theo! Bye!”

I’m still mopping the coffee up from my desk with bits of parchment when she appears: Mildred.  She stands over me in an outfit apparently comprised of Britain’s entire tweed reserves, and which somehow barrels past 1940s vintage straight into sixty-year-old librarian.  In her arms is what looks disappointingly like a stack of mail to be addressed.

“Quite the mess, Edie.”

“I keep saying we need smarter owls!”

She doesn’t smile, which is nothing new, and sets the stack down with more force than necessary.  The noise rattles my poor brain.  She knows I’m hung over, and I can’t blame her for being mad, except I still do anyway.  But I smile up at her, determined that she like me, even though I think she is quite possibly the absolute worst person in the entire world.

“Outgoing.  The owls are coming at twelve o’clock sharp.”

I glance at my watch.  It’s 11:45, and I know that she’s been hoarding the stack at her desk all morning, waiting until the last possible minute.  There’s at least thirty minutes of work in front of me. 

“Brilliant, thank you!”

Behind her cat-rimmed glasses is the slightest un-narrowing of her eyes, her way of smiling at me.  Without another word she turns and Apparates on the spot, back to her desk in the shiny part of the building. 

As Mr. Ward’s assistant, she is my main point of contact with my internship.  She’s oddly protective in a way that makes me think she would quite literally take a bullet for him.  Although she started as an intern and had multiple opportunities to move up within the company, she has remained Ward’s faithful servant for years.  She’s only in her mid-thirties but I once nearly asked if the photograph of her niece was her granddaughter.  It’s not like she had a chance—her parents named her _Mildred,_ for God’s sake.

It’s no secret that she didn’t want me for the internship.  But she didn’t have a say in the matter, and I had an in with the magazine: Dean.  As a freelance artist, he had done some commissioned illustrations for _Charm_.  Dean pulled a few strings and, despite Mildred’s attempts at sabotage, here I am.

“And here I am,” I grumble.

♔

 

After a mildly stressful fifteen minutes, the post is on its way, and I try to reward myself with lunch at my desk.  But my spoon dredges through an unappetizing bowl of room-temperature Cauldrons and Bats soup, named for the shapes of its noodles.  One lonely bit of carrot floats in the murky sodium-water they call broth.  I push the bowl away and decide to try my luck in the kitchens.  Sometimes, photo shoots or meetings are catered with baked goods, even though nobody at _Charm_ eats baked goods—or sugar, or dairy, or anything—which means I can crudely shove them in my purse.  It wouldn’t be the first week I’ve subsisted on croissants alone.  I snatch up my coffee mug and Apparate.

In the light of the upstairs corridors, I feel like a deep-dwelling fish that evolved to not have eyes.  I ignore the usual confused glances of my coworkers: _Does she even work here?  Is she lost?_ On more than one occasion, I’ve been told that the caterers are to enter through the back door.

I’m grateful to find the kitchens empty.  A stainless-steel cauldron that magically removes saturated fat—and unfortunately all flavor—is bubbling away, emitting a nauseating smell.  Unfortunately, there are no treats, and I grumpily turn to my only consolation at _Charm_ : expensive coffee.

As I head back to my sad, dark corner, I spot Rose Zeller at the opposite end of the corridor.  She’s the closest thing I have to a friend here, meaning we mutually understand that we are using one another to pass the time.  Rose complains about problems with dating and her job, and I complain about my lack of both of those things.

It took quite some time to get over my initial jealousy. (And by “get over” I mean “compartmentalize and never fully confront, while it continues to fester and occasionally manifests in passive-aggressive behaviour.”)  Rose is three years younger than me and already has a journalism career.  But she isn’t exactly liked at _Charm_ for the ambition that got her the job over older, more qualified candidates, which is why she relies on the unpaid intern for camaraderie.

When she spots me I offer a wave, sipping from my cup.  Rose is beautiful in a Hipster-Maleficent way: her skin glows freakishly white, and her grey eyes rest in a constant deadpan that men find irresistible.

“Alright?” I say when we finally meet in the corridor.  She’s wearing all black, as usual, her hourglass shape accentuated by the pencil skirt.  I would be lying if I said I wasn’t also jealous of her looks.

Her response is, “You can’t even imagine the kind of bullshit day I’m having.”  I blink in surprise, and she huffs, “It’s this stupid assignment.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Some interview for a Quidditch section Ward wants to introduce, I don’t know.  It was sprung on me last-minute.  You _know_ it’s just him trying to weasel man-stories into the magazine, and I’m already so busy with my other pieces—” 

I’m having a very hard time feeling sorry for her.

“I mean, it’s a huge piece, for _next month’s issue_. That gives me, what?  Just over a week to have it done from start to finish?  And it means an in-depth interview, on top of me giving two shits about Quidditch—”

“Mmm!” I barely manage to turn my rage into a noise indicating agreement.  _I_ should be writing that article!  I probably still have Kestrel green paint on my face.  “Well, I should get back to work.  I’m busy too.”

She quirks an eyebrow.  “Really.”

“Yeah, really.”  I back away, mostly to put her out of throttling range.  “But hey, rotten luck with being handed a monumental piece like that.  Especially amidst all of those other cover stories.” 

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”  She’s caught on to my childishness, but I don’t care.  Obviously, this is a sore spot for me; she knows I didn’t apply to be a bloody intern here.  I brush past her.

As I walk, I try to loosen my death grip around the coffee mug.  Maybe I was too hard on Rose.  But it’s infuriating to go day-in, day-out in this place where somebody like me, who is dying to become a writer, is ignored.  More than infuriating.  When I reach my desk, it seems to have shrank, the air damper, the light dimmer. 

  

♔

 

Usually when Mr. Ward calls me into his office, it’s to ask for a cup of tea.  I remember the first time it happened.  I was so sure that I was about to be handed a major assignment.  Beaming, I had practically skipped all the way up the stairs to his office.

“Read it back to me, Edith.”

My jaw was clenched so tightly I was surprised he could understand. “Smoked ham, yellow mustard, spinach, one tomato slice, lightly toasted rye.”

He smiled and nodded, listening as if I were reciting _The Iliad_ from memory.  “Excellent work.  Now, you _do_ know where Broomhilda’s Kitchen is located?”

Today, when I walk into his office with my quill at the ready, he’s editing a parchment and waves me in without lifting his head.  Mr. Ward is in his fifties, with a long, horse-like face and badly parted hair.  The way he is currently reading the parchment looks very affected, a finger placed under his chin.

I stand uncomfortably as owls swoop in and out, dropping parcels and letters that magically sort themselves, a constant blur.  Behind the desk, an enormous window overlooks the streets of Diagon Alley, where people go about their daily business.  Mounted to the walls are countless journalism awards, honourary degrees, and other recognitions.  In fact, there are so many that Mr. Ward has charmed them to shift around so that they may all be seen.  Apparently, what he lacks in common sense and social graces, he makes up for in writing.

With a final exaggerated flourish of his quill, he smiles toothily. “Sit, Edith.”

Usually, whatever he needs is insignificant enough to be fully explained while standing. The chair is small and uncomfortable, and I wait as he fixes his tie.

“Edith, Edith, Edith.  I have to say, you’ve done very well with all of your assignments so far.”  I fight the urge to deadpan and he says, “You have definitely proven yourself to be a valuable part of _Charm_.  I’d say it’s time for you to take on a _much bigger_ role.”

I almost don’t believe him.  “Really?”

“Yes, of course!  We are going to be participating in an important affair at Gringotts next month.  I’m sure you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

The Female Goblin Coalition rally!   _Charm_ is going to run a story with actual substance, and they want me to help!

Mr. Ward folds his hands on his desk and leans forward.  I can smell his coffee breath.  I don’t care. “Edith, we need you.”

“I will be there!” I gush, emphatically touching his desk.

But I do this just as he says, “Would you man the refreshments table?”

My finger jams into the woodgrain.  Mr. Ward is still smiling as if frozen.  “So…this _isn’t_ about the Female Goblin Coalition strike.”

He makes a _“Pfft_ _”_ sound and shoos away the very idea with his hand.  “No!  The MMA gala will be at Gringotts this year and we are, of course, attending as guests.  Can’t believe you haven’t heard about it!”

On cue, an owl drops a parchment on my head with a screech.  I snatch the flyer, crumpling it slightly. _Gringotts Bank proudly presents the 218th Annual Magical Media Association Gala._  There is a horrible illustration of Goblin and a business-wizard chortling over brandy.

“So, what do you say?”  Mr. Ward rests his hands behind his head. I’m waiting for him to prop up his expensive Dragonhide shoes. “Are you our girl?”

I stare in disbelief, still clutching the parchment.  The magazine is actually _supporting_ Gringotts right now?  A publication marketed to women is associating with a blatantly sexist institution?  I want to shout that this is wrong, that I quit, that I’m a better journalist than he ever bothered to find out.  But this internship is all the journalism experience I have...

In a resigned sing-song, I say, “I’m your girl!”


	3. The Proposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose gently sets a blue file folder on the table. 
> 
> “Please tell me you’re not keeping files on Theo now.”
> 
> She glowers. “This isn’t about Theo.”
> 
> “Oh?”
> 
> “This is about the Quidditch article I don’t want to write.”
> 
> _“Oh.”_

  

 

CHAPTER THREE

♔

The Proposition

  
“I have  _got_  to get the hell away from that place,” I tell Lisa as I pour the tattooed wizard his stout.   
  
It’s been a week since Ward has given me this golden opportunity at the WNAG. I’ve done my best to avoid him since, which hasn’t been too difficult, as he rarely oversees my daily activities to begin with.  
  
I’ve just arrived from  _Charm_  to take on my evening shift at the Poisoned Apple. I’m exhausted, but it’s only seven o’clock; the real action won’t begin for hours. Lisa has surprisingly dropped by after her shift at St. Mungo’s, bless her. She’s even more knackered than me after pulling another all-nighter. Clearly she is fighting to stay awake, but she’s too polite to tell me she’d rather be cuddling with Justin in her sweatpants than listening to my problems.  
  
I place the stout before the tattooed wizard. He’s quite fit; I lean flirtatiously over the bar, smiling.   
  
“Three Sickles.”   
  
But he isn’t listening. He is, of course, staring at Lisa.  
  
Even in her state of near-exhaustion she looks like a supermodel; like she’s been up all night taking body-shots off Myron Wagtail. Even her cardigan is inside out, but she’s too tired to notice.  
  
“Three Sickles!” I snap, and the man jumps from his Lisa-reverie. Sliding the coins across the bar, he chuckles as if to say,  _Can you blame me?_  
  
I grump down the bar to my friend. “He’s staring at you.”  
  
“No he’s not,” she mumbles impatiently, like she always does, tucking her hair behind her ear.  
  
Lisa and I went out over the weekend. I was beyond keen—that is, until I remembered that walking into a bar with her is like walking into a flock of Hippogriffs with a particularly scrumptious weasel. All night, I was stuck blathering away to the barkeep, while man after man wedged himself between Lisa and I to talk to her. Finally I charmed her engagement ring so that it glittered blindingly, even in the dim light.  
  
Lisa didn’t mind. In fact, I could tell she felt sorry for me. Her pity inspired my sixth gin and tonic. When we left, I did so with smudged lipstick, and Lisa with two men actually shedding tears at her departure.  
  
“Save some for the rest of us, will you?” I shove a fistful of bar nuts into my mouth, chewing loudly.  
  
“What, is your sparkling etiquette not doing the trick?” Lisa grins at my ugly snacking and I chew louder. “And don’t be ridiculous, you’re always hanging out with boys.”  
  
“Uh, those idiots do  _not_  count. Last time I saw them, Seamus tried to suffocate me with a pillow for cheering on the wrong team. And Dean ate all my Licorice Wands.”  
  
There is the sudden prickly feeling of being watched. A glance down the bar reveals that the tattooed wizard is full-on staring at Lisa, balancing his chin on his fist as if she were an oil painting.  
  
“Oh, brilliant!” She shields her face with her hand. “Edie, come on, he’s  _pathetic.”_  
  
“Well, beggars can’t be choosers.”  
  
I’d like to think that l’m mildly visually pleasing, when not within a three-mile radius of Lisa. I have strong cheekbones and wide brown eyes, and I know a thing or two about making my ginger hair look nice. Unfortunately, my best friend is an otherworldly angelic being.  
  
She snorts. “We were talking about your  _job,_  I thought, not men. You know, empowerment, glass ceilings…”  
  
As she sips from her coffee I pull a face—how she possibly drinks that rubbish is beyond me. The Poisoned Apple has some of the worst coffee on the planet. But I suppose when your nights are spent collecting bedpans and reading charts until you’re cross-eyed, you’ll do anything to stay awake.  
  
“Does St. Mungo’s need a new Welcome Witch?” I’m only half joking.  
  
“I wish. Dolores is dreadful.” Her eyes narrow accusingly. “You aren’t letting on to Dean, are you? About how much you hate  _Charm?_  It was really nice of him to land you an internship.”  
  
When I shift uncomfortably, she clicks her tongue in admonition. “Edie…”  
  
I throw my hands up. “Well? You can’t expect me to control every word that comes out of my mouth when we’re drinking! I can barely do that sober.”  
  
“Right, but it’s  _Dean,”_  she says.  
  
“I know, he’s my best mate.” Lisa fixes me with a serious gaze and I add, “Aside from you!”  
  
“That’s not what I was saying.”  
  
Suddenly the bar door is thrown open so hard that it bangs on the opposing wall. Lisa nearly spills her coffee. “What the—”   
  
A gaggle of well-dressed people stumbles in; three witches and two wizards. The women are wearing short, glittery dresses, while the men’s tailored blazers probably cost a month’s rent on my flat. I know the type: posh socialites from Chelsea who stumbled across this bar by accident, and who don’t know a good beer from a broomstick.  
  
And they’re absolutely off their faces. I can tell by picking up on subtle hints, such as how one man raises his arms and releases a war-cry that silences the pub.  
  
Lisa fails to suppress her smirk, downing the last of her coffee. “And on that note…” She rises and collects her purse. (The tattooed man actually whines.)  
  
“Don’t leave me,” I beg.  
  
“Sorry!” she says, but her eyes are glimmering with amusement.   
  
Lisa twiddles her fingers in a farewell and turns on the spot. The crack of her apparating is barely audible over the newcomers’ loud chatter. As they approach the bar, they’re trying to remember the name of “that one cocktail they had in Edinburgh. It had some kind of juice in it. Or something.”

 

 

 

 

♔

 

It turns out that they are essentially harmless. The girls, at least, are the saving grace of the entire outfit— _And in really amazing shape,_  I think, noticing their toned arms. The only exercise I ever get is sprinting back and forth behind this bar like a caged terrier.   
  
The whole group has a celebrity air about them. Maybe it’s the way they hold themselves, or their way of talking, but everyone is noticing, murmuring with their heads together.   
  
So who are they?  
  
“Excuse me.”   
  
One of the men is leaning against the bar in his pristine outfit. “Ooh, you don’t want to touch the bar, unless you want that to disintegrate.”  
  
He glances down at the fabric, cracking an unsure smile, and I shrug. “Looks expensive.”  
  
He’s tall and broad, with wavy brown hair, and looks familiar, but I can’t place him. Probably because he’s wearing a pair of expensive sunglasses—even though he’s in a dark pub, at nighttime. It’s a wonder he found his way to the counter.  
  
Then he says, “Ken I pleehs hev an Oold Fyeshend?”  
  
His counterparts erupt into laughter from their table. A glance tells me that they’re watching our interaction with great interest, and I have the feeling that I’m the butt of some joke.  
  
“Sank you.” He says curtly as I slide him his Old Fashioned. (His friends chortle again.)   
  
As the night progresses, I lose track of the cocktails he and his friends order. They want champagne with gin and huckleberry vodka, with muddled grapefruit, salt on the rim, bitters over a sugar cube, shaken not stirred, and on and on and on… By the end of it, I’m pouring juice with sparkling water. They’re too drunk to notice and I’m not charging them anymore. But they’ve become entirely too much to handle.  
  
The soberest of the group, a woman with a serious demeanor and startling green eyes, sends me little apologetic looks now and then. She looks familiar, too, and I wonder if she was a fellow Hogwarts student. Still, she does nothing to stop the men from making complete asses of themselves.   
  
After their third mentioning that they’ve been drinking since four o’clock in the afternoon, my patience is running thin. Their volume level is like they’re screaming across a gorge at one another, rather than sitting at the same table. So far, I’m only seriously irked.   
  
However, the scale tips in favour of “completely furious” when I run to the ladies’ loo, in one of the spare seconds they give me, only to find the man with the accent. Still wearing his sunglasses. Pissing on the wall.  
  
“Oh my  _God!”_  
  
Believe it or not, part of my job is dealing with a lot of drunk people. But this certainly takes the Snitch.  
  
The man swivels in horror. Yet he doesn’t seem to think he should stop urinating. I focus all of my energy into looking him in the eye—or stupid sunglasses—as he says in bewilderment, “I think you’re in the wrong loo!”  
  
It’s a moment before the murderous red stops clouding my vision. I jab my finger at the door. “Get out!”  
  
At last he realizes that he, in fact, has gotten it all wrong. He mumbles something incoherent and stumbles out, leaving me with a huge mess to clear up. Not only has he pissed everywhere, but he managed to overflow the sink and topple the bin in the process—in which he has apparently puked. (Luckily, my equally sad second job of cleaning hotels in Diagon Alley has equipped me with quick cleaning charms.)  
  
I throw open the door to the toilets, chest heaving. The Phantom of the Loo has apparently not mentioned his recent adventure to his friends. Ignoring the tattooed wizard’s request for another pint, I storm across the bar and grab him by his expensive shirt.  
  
“Whoa!” his mate shouts suggestively.  
  
I open my mouth to scream I-don’t-know-what, but before I even know what’s happening this arsehole says, “Why thank you,” and plants his mouth on mine. It is easily the sloppiest kiss—if you could even call it that—I have ever experienced. My nostril is in his mouth.   
  
I shove him as hard as I can. He stumbles back but two of the girls catch him, their jaws dropped in horror.  
  
“I DIDN’T COME OVER HERE TO KISS YOU, I CAME TO KICK YOU OUT OF MY PUB!”   
  
He raises his hands questioningly. “Vhat for?”   
  
And they erupt into howls of laughter.   
  
Idiots. All of them.  
  
The other bloke throws an arm over his shoulder—or tries. He doesn’t has much to offer in the way of motor skills right now. “D’you know who thissis? Thissis bloody Viktor Krum!”  
  
The whole pub has already quieted at the sudden shouting, but now they’re murmuring again. Even I am taken aback. It does make sense: his build, the accent, how wealthy they are, why he looks so familiar. But I don’t want to give them the satisfaction.  
  
I am prepared to say something along the lines of,  _“I don’t care who the bloody hell you are,”_ but at that exact moment, a man in a neighboring group throws a fist into the air.   
  
“YEAH, BULGARIA!”  
  
Then Viktor Krum turns and punches him in the face.   
  
_“WHAT_  the EVER-LIVING  _FUCK!”_  
  
The man topples over and his friends dive to his defense, tackling Viktor Krum to the floor. Though they are outnumbered, Krum and his friend are still trying to put up a fight, but they can barely move with their over-dressed inebriation. The green-eyed witch is in the thick of it, pulling them off of each other, bellowing to break it up. Not for the first time, I wonder why nobody is ever smart enough to use magic in pub fights.  
  
_“Stupefy!”_  
  
My spell stops most of the fighters, save one, though he thinks better of it and backs away. The brawlers are frozen mid-punch, looking like Picasso’s Guernica. A woman gives a final shriek before quieting herself.  
  
“Aaaand that’s last call! Everybody go home, I’m done.”  
  
I perform the counter-spell, ignoring the cries of complaint. I feel like a mother who’s just told her children that it’s time to leave Honeydukes. The girls are doing their best to pull their friends to their feet, but the combination of high heels and cocktails has made them as wobbly as newborn foals. Before Krum has even made it to a standing position I’ve waved away the blinking  _Open_  sign with my wand and retreated behind the bar.   
  
“But I never got my stout!” The tattooed wizard has an impressive whine for a grown man.  
  
“Mate, I just cleaned up somebody’s vomit, and was kissed by that same mouth. If anyone needs a beer, it’s me.”   
  
He must reckon he can’t argue with that, because when I turn around he’s gone.   
  
One by one, Viktor Krum’s friends come up to settle their bills. It’s a slow-going process but I am grateful to not have to deal with them in a group. The girls continue to apologise profusely, and I think they genuinely mean well. They use the phrase “complete sodding disgrace” more than once.  
  
I’m on the verge of breaking the glass that I’m polishing when there is a quiet, “‘Scuse me.”   
  
Viktor Krum is leaning on the bar again. His expensive blazer is ripped at the shoulder and his left eye is already swelling shut. Clumsily he takes a seat in one of the stools.   
  
“Really sorry,” he manages. He gestures pathetically towards his mouth and I assume he means the kiss. Behind him the sober girl—a girlfriend, maybe?—is giving him a grave look, arms crossed tightly over her chest. More than likely the apology was her idea entirely.  
  
My response is a terse, “Nine Galleons, two Sickles, seventeen Knuts.”   
  
Whereas I would be horrified at such an amount, Krum merely fishes around in his trouser pockets. I suppose things like this are common to a Quidditch star. I turn away, waving my wand at the sink to fill it with soapy water, watching the pint glasses wash themselves. Reflected in the mirror over the sinks, Krum clumsily searches for the proper coinage, before giving up and dumping the pile onto the bar with a rattle of change. Like a well-trained pup, he stares at my back and waits quietly.  
  
When I turn he slides the pile over. “Keep the res’.” I nod tightly, not making eye contact.   
  
“I really am sorry,” he says again and stumbles to his feet.   
  
I’m still refusing proper eye contact, unable to forget the stench of his boozy breath on my lips, until finally he staggers back to the others. When he’s not looking, my curiosity gets the best of me—quickly I count the pile of money. To my surprise, he’s left a three-Galleon tip.  
  
“Go Bulgaria,” I mutter.  
  
I count the coins again, this time in terms of how many stress-beers they will buy. No doubt Seamus and Dean are way ahead of me by now; there’s a Haileybury Hammers match tonight, and they’ve long since been at my flat, watching the two-way mirror. (I gave them the password to the front door. Not sure yet if this is a good or bad idea.) No doubt they’re already shouting at the match and decimating my meagre supply of food.   
  
Finally everyone is leaving. Krum offers a pathetic wave as he stumbles out, which I ignore. When the door closes I release the enormous breath that I’d apparently been holding.  
  
It’s not until an hour later, as I am locking the door in the chilly night air, that I realise it: Krum’s accent had disappeared when he came to apologise. In fact, he’d almost sounded Scottish.  
  
“Edie.”  
  
_“Father Christmas!”_  The first exclamation I can think of flies from my lips.   
  
Painfully, I drop my too-full keychain on my toe. The thing could give Rubeus Hagrid a run for his money. Hopping on one foot while massaging the other, I turn and am face-to-face with Rose Zeller in her signature red peacoat.   
  
_“That’s_  your reaction to being snuck up on? I could’ve hexed you three times over.”  
  
Ignoring the jibe, I release my foot. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“Well I came to find you. Did you close this foul chanty early? It’s only midnight.”  
  
“Really long story,” I sigh, waving her off. I’m trying not to focus on the fact that my only kiss in months was from a guy who had just thrown up in a ladies’ room. “Wait, why did you want to find me?”  
  
“Could you _be_  any more suspicious?”  
  
“Well, I just never really saw us as, you know.”   
  
_Friends._  The word hangs in the air.   
  
After a very painful moment she says, “I have a favour to ask.”  
  
Oh no.  
  
But she’s got her pleading face on, and I know that I won’t be heading home to watch the match until I’ve at least heard her out.  
  
“Well, let’s not just stand here in the cold. Do you fancy a pint?” But I’ve already started walking. If I’m going to be asked to set her up with Theo again, I’m at least going to get a beer out of it. Rose hurries after, the heels of her boots click-clacking down the cobblestones.   
  
Several minutes later, we arrive at Le Chat Noir and shuffle into the warmth of firelight. It’s not a place that I typically haunt, but I saw the look on Rose’s face upon seeing my first choice. Maybe it was the one-eyed wizard hunched outside, hacking up a lung, and asking if we could spare money for his budding music career. At Rose’s approving look we head to one of the polished black tables in the corner.  
  
The barmaid has short bleached hair and a septum piercing, and takes our orders with indifference. Rose coolly orders a double vodka soda with a flick of her hair. Kicked back with arms crossed I order a Peverell Porter. The barmaid nods curtly, and I have the feeling that she thinks we’re a couple.  
  
“So,” I say after she disappears. “A favour, eh?”  
  
Rose studies me before wordlessly reaching into her purse. A blue folder is set gently on the table. “Please tell me you’re not keeping files on Theo now.”  
  
She glowers. “This isn’t about Theo.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“This is about the Quidditch article I don’t want to write.”  
  
_“Oh.”_  I sit up like a spaniel eyeing a liver treat.   
  
“Thought that might interest you. Go on, open it.”  
  
Fingers tingling, I reach across the table, feeling the paper-pulp texture beneath my fingers…  
  
“It’s empty,” I frown.   
  
“Exactly.” Roses smiles with satisfaction. Thoroughly confused, my next question is silenced when the barmaid returns with our drinks. I thank her with a silent smile, my heart practically leaping from my chest, as Rose studies her drink, takes a sip, smacks her lips thoughtfully— _will you go on?_  
  
At last she says, “So far I have nothing for this article. I don’t have the time to write it. I talked to Ward about giving it to you instead.”  
  
My hand shoots across the table and grabs her wrist. “You didn’t!”  
  
“Don’t get too excited,” Rose takes another sip, not meeting my eyes. “He said no.”   
  
“What! Why? Honestly, has Ward even  _glanced_  at my portfolio? I have some  _very_ impressive work from Hog—”  
  
“I know, you started your own little school newspaper that nobody read.” When I glower at her she says, more gently, “Sorry. I’m still asking for your help. Or, rather, suggesting that we help each other.”  
  
I don’t like her tone, or the glint in her eye. Bartering with journalists is something I’ve always been wary of. It’s an unspoken rule of the game; something gleaned from black and white Muggle films, where men in jaunty hats get themselves into sticky situations by making deals with the press.   
  
But if this is what I think it is…  
  
“So, what then?”  
  
“Well, obviously Ward wants it to be written by an actual, seasoned journalist—” (My hand clenches around the pint glass.) “—but I just don’t have the time. I know, I know. This is not how journalism is run. If you’re given an assignment, you keep it. You see that it gets done, especially when Tallulah Blakeslee gives it to you personally, blah, blah, blah.”  
  
“How in the  _world_  did you get a job over me?” I murmur breathlessly.   
  
“The bottom line is that I’m too busy to write this assignment, and it needs to be done, and Ward needs to think that I’m the one who did it.”  
  
Rose slides the empty folder across the table. The little lightbulb goes off. “You want me to write it under your name.”   
  
My intention is to say this flatly, as if it’s a stupid idea—but I can’t. Of course it’s unethical. Of course my hard work would be going unnoticed, again. But it’s the best opportunity to present itself in all my time at  _Charm:_  a chance to conduct an actual interview. Real-life experience writing for an actual magazine.  
  
It would mean being a published journalist.  
  
Rose cracks a grin. She knew that I would say yes. “See what I’m getting at, here?”  
  
I take a long drink, my eyes never leaving the blue folder. There is the distinct feeling of being trapped, even though technically I’m the one doing the favour.   
  
There  _has_  to be a catch somewhere; something that can blow up in our faces. In fact there are probably hundreds of catches. But my excitement and the alcohol are keeping me from seeing them right now.  
  
“All right, I’ll do it.”  
  
Rose releases a squeal of delight. “Oh, Edie, thank you, thank you, thank you! This is such a relief.”   
  
Despite the fact that this is clearly the absolute  _worst_  idea I have ever had, I smile back at her. She says, giddily, “Honestly, I couldn’t give two pence about Quidditch in the first place. I mean it’s so brutal and vulgar—”  
  
Though I can’t argue with this, I’m too excited and interrupt, “So, tell me about the piece! What’s the angle?”  
  
“Right. It’ll be a feature piece focusing on a player from…” She frowns in thought, and I think that she  _has_  to be doing this on purpose. “Perth? Plymouth? Oh, it’s Puddleme—”  
  
“PUDDLEMERE.” I have slammed down my glass mid-sip, beer sloshing. “PUDDLEMERE UNITED.”   
  
Rose stares blankly. “Yes?”  
  
I lift a reassuring hand. “Let me explain.”  
  
And I launch into my prepared story, about how they are one of my Top Three Quidditch Teams (before Kenmare, after Holyhead.) I also mention my Puddlemere knickers that read  _Chuck that Quaffle Here_  across the bum.   
  
And in the most abridged history lesson I can offer, I explain that Puddlemere made it to last year’s European Cup, wherein the game lasted an agonizing seven hours. It was a complete stalemate. And Puddlemere would have won, had it not been for Seeker Amelia Jones pulling a Wronski Feint—why,  _why_  would you do that, Jones?—and crashing. As soon as she was down the Seeker from the Arrows caught the Snitch. It was all over in seconds.   
  
“The following week was… not ideal,” I say darkly.  
  
But I may as well be speaking Mermish, because Rose’s eyes are glazed over. “Yeah,” she says with false enthusiasm.  
  
“So. Who will I be interviewing? Jones? Oh, Merlin,  _please_  let it be Jones! I’ve been dying to ask her about that Feint, but she’s never answered my fan mail…”  
  
“Edie, you wrote her  _fan_ —? Anyway.” With the shake of her head, Rose chooses not to acknowledge this. “Your first interview is set up for tomorrow morning at ten.”  
  
“Tomorrow morning! That doesn’t give me any time to prepare!”  
  
“Well you’re already a walking dictionary on the subject. What more do you need to know about Pogglemore?”  
  
“Puddlemere.”   
  
“Anyway, you’re interviewing Oliver Wood.”  
  
My jaw drops. “Are you —  _Seriously?”_  
  
Wood is arguably Puddlemere’s best player. Even better, he’s become a Quidditch martyr after a serious shoulder injury that’s left him out for an entire season. For this reason I’ve never seen him play, but  _everyone_  knows the name Oliver Wood.  
  
Maybe he’s slipped off the radar, and he’s fairly old for a professional athlete. And I’ve heard a rumour about a drinking problem. But I can practically see my pitch now:  _Quidditch Hero Still Fighting for Place in the Game._  
  
Rose supplies, “You two should have been at Hogwarts together for a bit, but I think he’s a few years ahead of you. Do you know who I’m talking about?”  
  
I laugh condescendingly. “Uh, yeah, I think I  _know_  who Oliver Wood is.”


	4. The Interview

 

CHAPTER FOUR

 

♔

The Interview

  
  
“You have got to be  _kidding me!”_  
  
“Edie, that’s brilliant!”  
  
“—first interview since he’s back on the team—”  
  
“—going to look  _so_  good on your CV—”  
  
“DID I MENTION PUDDLEMERE?!”  
  
Dean and Seamus have always been supportive to me, but they’re much more vocal about it after six pints. It doesn’t hurt that their team, the Haileybury Hammers, won tonight’s match. As I rest on the sofa with a congratulatory beer (the single bottle they managed to set aside for me) they take turns punching my shoulder, ruffling my hair, hugging me, and shoving me.  
  
Dean smacks a hand over his forehead. “I can’t believe you get to do his first interview since the injury!”  
  
“Oi, just because I’m a  _woman_  doesn’t mean I’m any less passionate about Quidditch—”  
  
“Christ, Edie, I didn’t mean you-you. I meant  _Charm._  Oliver Wood  _never_  agrees to interviews, like ever. Is it even the kind of magazine to do interesting stories? No offense.”  
  
“None taken. And… no.”  
  
Seamus declares, “If it should be anyone doing the interview, it should be me! I’ve been Wood’s biggest fan since Hogwarts. Have you ever even  _spoken_  to him?”  
  
Honestly, I can’t even picture what Oliver Wood looks like. According to Dean and Seamus, he was four years ahead of us in school, which means he graduated before I had become remotely interested in Quidditch. Being from another Hogwarts house didn’t help.  
  
“Maybe? I apparently got into a heated argument with Harry Potter, once, about whether or not he should be in the girls’ loo. Don’t recall that, either.”  
  
Seamus ignores me, “To think we were in  _school_  with the tosser! And look at him now.”  
  
“Harry Potter?”  
  
“No, of course not,  _Oliver Wood!_ Best player Puddlemere ever had—you’ve never even seen him play, but trust me—and I never got to talk Quidditch with him! I mean, I tried, but he always just kind of looked at me funny…”  
  
Dean raises an index finger. “That’s because you followed him like a lost puppy and couldn’t formulate a proper sentence. Pretty sure he thought you had the hots for him.”  
  
I snort, “Yeah, didn’t you follow him into the locker room before a match once?”  
  
“Even though he was showering?”  
  
Seamus throws up his hands. “All right, let’s not waste time dwelling on the past! So, where exactly is this interview again?”  
  
“The Three Broomsticks, at ten o’clock. Can’t believe Rose actually agreed to meet him there…” Then I realize why he’s looking at me like that. “Seamus,  _no.”_  
  
“Come on Edie, please! I just want to get a look at him!”  
  
Dean quirks an eyebrow. “And you’re certain you don’t have the hots for him.”  
  
“Bugger off!” Seamus beams him in the forehead with a bottle cap and continues, without missing a beat, “It’ll be perfect. Just a casual run-in.”  
  
“Seamus,  _nobody_  is going to believe that you just happened to be in Hogsmeade, almost ten years after you graduated, the day a famous Quidditch player is visiting!” I cross my arms. “‘Sides, I’m nervous enough. I don’t need you staring, on top of everything else.”  
  
“Tell him.” Dean clinks bottles with me. Seamus grumbles something but argues no more, apparently quelled.  
  
I take the final swig of my beer. It’s nearly midnight; I should have been in bed hours ago if I want to be properly rested for tomorrow. But I doubt sleep will come soon at all.   
  
Happiness is still bubbling inside me as I stretch widely, saying, “You two had better stay here again.”  
  
“Sage advice.” Dean gestures to the dozen empty bottles scattered around the den.  
  
I point a stern finger at Seamus. “I mean it, mate,  _no drinking and Apparating.”_  Last time, the poor bugger Splinched himself and had to regrow one of his toes.  
  
“I know, I know,” he mumbles, eyeing his left foot.  
  
I am still wearing my stupid grin as I brush my teeth, change into pyjamas (instead of falling asleep in whatever I’m already wearing, as usual) and carefully select an outfit for tomorrow morning (rather than scraping dirty clothes off the floor.) It’s a time of change.   
  
When I trek back to the kitchen for a glass of water some time later, I notice that my small den—slash dining room slash storage area—is still lit up by the two-way mirror. Though Seamus is snoring loudly, splayed out on the sofa, Dean is watching a Muggle football match. Sipping my water, I perch on the arm of his chair. It’s completely falling apart and should have been tossed ages ago.  
  
“I can’t believe this,” I say.  
  
“I know, like Flanders could actually beat Italy.” We meet eyes and he grins, still a little heavy-lidded from beer. “Seriously, I’m chuffed for you, Edie.”  
  
I’m not great with emotions. But I remember Lisa’s advice from earlier, and her granola-eating, organic-hemp-vegan, find-your-truth exercises. I really do owe a lot to Dean.   
  
“Well, it’s all because of your brilliant work landing me the internship. So thanks. This whole article could have never even happened without it.”  
  
“Well, don’t thank me yet, Wood might turn out to be a complete ass.”  
  
“Fair enough,” I say and rise to my feet. “Well, ‘night then.”  
  
“Doubt I’ll get any rest with  _that.”_  He looks at Seamus, who releases a grizzly-like snore on cue.   
  
It crosses my mind to ask if he would rather sleep in my room, but something about that feels too strange. With a parting grin, I close the door behind me and crawl into bed. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I drift off to sleep genuinely pleased with the way things are headed.  
  
Unfortunately, the pleasant feeling only lasts for the six hours that I am unconscious.   
  
My morning begins by waking thirty minutes later than intended. Then it turns out the dress I laid out has an enormous hole in the skirt, from when I once drunkenly dropped a lit cigarette on myself. In a flurry of panic I try to wake Seamus, who is surprisingly good with clothes-mending charms, but even shaking him only yields grumpy noises. The man has got to be the world’s heaviest sleeper.   
  
I tear through my wardrobe, finally coming across a blue dress that is both clean and modest, and throw it on. Then, just when I am about to Disapparate, I smear my mascara everywhere, which Dean has to awkwardly wipe away because I don’t have time to run back to the mirror. Finally, I am grabbing my bag when I realize that I can’t locate a quill left right or centre, even with Summoning Spells, and  _HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO INTERVIEW SOMEBODY WITHOUT A BLOODY QUILL?!_  
  
“Just take mine, you’ll be alright,” Dean assures with a mildly terrified look. He hands me the expensive artist’s quill I bought him. After blurting a thank-you I turn on the spot, and with a loud  _CRACK,_  I am finally gone.  
  
When I throw open the door to the Three Broomsticks, I am already four minutes late. But there is only Madame Rosmerta—who is still rocking the tavern-wench look—and a very old witch, already drinking sherry. No Oliver Wood.  
  
A rain begins to fall as I stand beneath the awning, nervously drumming my fingers. He could have been early. He could have already left in disgust. Is he talking right now with my hero, Amelia Jones, about my disgraceful lack of punctuality? Now she’ll  _never_  answer my letters!  
  
With each splash through the puddles I glance up, but somehow it’s never him. I really should have tried to find a photograph. Surely Seamus keeps one in his underwear drawer.   
  
I check my watch again. 10:16. Inside, I claim a small table, ordering what turns out to be a bucket-sized mug of undrinkable coffee.  
  
On the table, I place a roll of parchment and Dean’s quill. Last is the glass Recordograph that I once sort-of-accidentally nicked from  _Charm._  Its bell jar fills with blue smoke—bits of sound—to be listened to later. It’s quite posh, and what actual journalists use, when they aren’t late for their jobs.  
  
At 10:45, I begin to lose hope.  
  
Somehow, against the rules of nature, I have drank almost all of the coffee when the rusty doorbell clangs. A glance up lurches my over-caffeinated heart to a dead stop. Of all people, Viktor Krum is striding in.  
  
What the hell is he doing  _in Hogsmeade?_  
  
Stupidly, I throw my body down onto the table, hiding behind the coffee turreen. I do  _not_  want him to recognize the girl who kicked him out of the pub last night. And I especially don’t want him here when—if—Oliver Wood arrives. What if they’re friends? Wood would hate me even more!  
  
Cautiously I peek around the coffee. To say that Krum looks worse for wear is an understatement. His eye is nearly swollen shut, and a large stain—beer or something rather more foul—covers his once-pristine shirt. It’s the same one he wore last night. Rather than taking a seat he remains standing, feet planted strongly apart and arms crossed tightly. The longer I watch him, the clearer it becomes: he’s waiting for somebody.  
  
But who?  
  
Then several things happen at once. Viktor Krum glances my way, and does a double-take as I am caught peering creepily around a bucket of coffee. At the same moment the bell clangs again. The door is opening to reveal a slightly-less-hungover Seamus, who is trying to appear very casual as he saunters in. But my annoyance doesn’t even have time to register, because suddenly Viktor Krum is making his way towards me.  
  
_Bugger, bugger, bugger!_  
  
Then Seamus throws his hands in the air and says, in the worst mock-surprise I’ve ever seen, “Oliver Wood!”   
  
Had my vocal cords not seized, I would scoff. Clearly he’s still pissed from last night. He’s not talking to Oliver Wood, he’s talking to Viktor Krum: Bulgaria’s former top Seeker, and possessor of an eighth of the entire country’s wealth (according to the tabloids.)  
  
So then why is Viktor Krum turning to answer him?   
  
Seamus looks as if he might faint, as the person I thought to be Krum frowns in confusion. “Do I…know you?”  
  
Wait.  
  
“Yeah, Oliver! It’s me!” Seamus says gleefully, as if reunited with a long-lost relative.  
  
This cannot be happening. This cannot be happening.  _This cannot be happening._  
  
Did I really fall for the fake accent? The one that his friends seemed to find so hilarious? Wood looked so familiar because he plays for  _Puddlemere._ And he punched a man for cheering on Bulgaria, because he bleeds Puddlemere blue.   
  
The parchment crumples in my fist. What an  _asshole._  
  
“Finnigan?” Wood mumbles.   
  
Seamus releases a high-pitched noise not unlike a tea kettle. He seems completely unaware that Oliver is less than pleased to be in public, let alone interacting with a former schoolmate. “Yeah, that’s right! Seamus Finnigan! Fancy running into you here, I had  _no_  idea!”  
  
“Yes, what are you doing here, exactly?” I am beside Seamus before I even realize that I’ve stood up, and practically hyperventilating. Wood towers over us both.  
  
Ignoring me, Seamus turns to the barkeep. “Rosemerta, still looking fit, I see! Get this man a pint. On me!”   
  
She looks halfway offended and halfway flattered. I cast her an apologetic smile before saying acidly, “It’s  _eleven o’clock in the morning,_ Finnigan.”   
  
I only use his last name when I’m furious. A worried look flits over his face.  
  
But Oliver Wood just shrugs grumpily. “Yeah, I’d take a pint.”  
  
I drop my arms incredulously, but Seamus practically squeals, “Of course! Right away!” He scurries over to the bar. Wood watches after him as though he’s still not entirely sure how they know one other.  
  
Thrusting out my hand, I say through gritted teeth, “Edie Lennox. I’ll be interviewing you today.”   
  
Up close he smells like a distillery and hardly looks my way. His handshake is half-hearted, to say the least. Well, Oliver Wood, I guess nobody ever taught you the importance of a firm yet cordial grip!   
  
“I thought I was meeting someone else,” he says.  
  
“Rose didn’t tell you?” He winces when I accidentally crush his hand. “Well, I’ll actually be conducting the interview today.”  
  
This apparently makes no difference to him. He nods, eyes roving the pub though there’s absolutely nothing of note to look at. Seamus, all smiles, returns with two pints in hand. My stony look is ignored: he’s drinking a beer with one of his favorite athletes, and nothing on earth could spoil such a moment. The clinking of their glasses splatters beer onto my shoes.  
  
Then Wood knocks back his pint in one go. Seamus and I are both staring, me in horror and Seamus as though he had just found his future husband. Wood smacks his lips mirthlessly. “Shall we?”  
  
Seamus releases an elated little chirp.  
  
“Right.” I put my hands on Seamus’s shoulders, forcing him away. “So nice of you, thank you.”   
  
Dejectedly, he shuffles to a corner table. Surely he will be eavesdropping to our every word.  
  
Wood makes a sad face. “Aww, but he was the  _nice_  one.”  
  
I ignore him, and the fact that my encounter with an athlete who plays for a team I greatly admire has, so far, been a complete letdown. Abandoning any guise of professionalism, I shout, “Do you  _seriously_  not recognize me?”  
  
I swear that a look of nervousness crosses over his face. “No?”   
  
“Oh, allow me!” I bellow theatrically, and begin ticking off his atrocities on my fingers. “You told me that you were Viktor Krum! You pissed all over the girls’ loo, not to mention threw up in it, and then tried to  _kiss me without asking!_  Oh, and the  _pièce de résistance:_  you punched a man out for cheering on Viktor Krum— _who you were pretending to be!”_  
  
Oliver has gone from white to beetroot, and halfway through my tirade began murmuring, “Alright, alright, I remember— _alright!”_  
  
Silenced, I glance self-consciously around the room. Madame Rosemerta is frozen halfway through pouring another drink for the old woman, sherry spilling all over the counter. Behind us, Seamus releases an enormous gasp for air, slapping his table. He has apparently been doubled over in silent laughter, nearing suffocation—I hadn’t told anyone about our encounter last night.  
  
Something in Wood’s face has changed, and with his blackened eye and mussed hair, I almost feel sorry for him. Sighing, he rubs his face tiredly. “So, I really did all of that, huh?”  
  
“You really don’t remember?”  
  
He looks like he wants to say something but, then again, I’m a reporter—as far as he knows. He’ll have to watch his words. “Look, I really am sorry. Today’s been a bit of a challenge, and I didn’t even want to do this bloody interview. It was Deverill’s idea.”  
  
“Wow, thanks.”  
  
“Not like that,” he says. “I just… really don’t like doing interviews.”  
  
“Well, we’re already here, so…” I gesture to the table, where the coffee has gone cold. Wood eyes it, and I can tell he’s considering just walking out. But he apparently sees right through my anger and into the desperation.  
  
_Please, it’s my first and only story—_ please  _don’t leave._  
  
“Yeah, alright,” he concedes, not exactly with enthusiasm.  
  
It'll do.  
  
As we sit, he narrows his eyes suspiciously, a hint of a smile on his lips. “So… you’re a bartender  _and_  a gossip columnist?”  
  
“Journalist,” I say tersely.  
  
“Right, journalist.”  
  
The heat flashes. “Well, gotta pay the bills somehow. We can’t all be millionaires just for catching a ball.”  
  
It’s uncalled for, maybe. And I  _like_  Quidditch—even if they  _are_  overpaid, I’m always happy to watch. But Wood has done nothing but humiliate and undermine me since the moment we met.  
  
He nods, biting his lower lip, but the smirk remains in his eyes. The damage is done. There’s no way I’ll be getting a cooperative interview from him now.  
  
But as I watch him—ruffled, swollen-eyed, pale with sleeplessness—I realize that I might be able to turn this around. He’s not here to be nice. Why should I be? I’m meant to be doing my  _job,_  which is writing about the truth.  
  
In fact, it will be shockingly easy. Between everything that happened last night, and today, I have so much material that I don’t even need the interview.  _Charm’s_  readers will eat this bollocks up. Oliver Wood has just walked right into the bear’s den: the angry, embarrassed, unqualified bear who now holds a grudge.  
  
Wood shrugs with boredom. “So, what do you want to know?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: If this is your first time reading, Oliver is much sassier this go-around. He really does not like the press, and as mentioned, only agreed to this article because of Deverill (which will be addressed more fully later.)
> 
> If you have thoughts, please leave them in a review! They are always very appreciated ♥


	5. A Brief Foray into Journalism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Society’s quite different from when you first signed your contract with Puddlemere. In many cases it’s better off. What kinds of social changes would you like to see in this new, freer Wizarding world?”
> 
> A pause. “That’s a bit heavy-handed for a lifestyle magazine, don’t you think?”
> 
> My tension is audible. “Not really, no.”
> 
> “Alright… Well, obviously we all want to see a decrease in the wage gap, and for people to not go hungry, and to, y’know, save the whales and all.”

CHAPTER FIVE

♔

A Brief Foray into Journalism

 

I push my Spellotaped reading glasses up my nose for the umpteenth time.  My legs are folded in an impossible origami position where I sit at my kitchen table; I can’t feel my right foot anymore.  (One day I’ll have a _real_ writing desk, but for now I’m skint, and this table found in the rubbish outside my flat will have to do.)  Across from me, Lisa is flipping “ironically” through a _Bewitched Bride_ magazine, “just for laughs.”  But she looks quite keen for someone who supposedly isn't interested. 

My interview with Oliver Wood did not go as planned, to say the very least.  But his rudeness had fuelled my anger, which is now fuelling my writing.  I’ve nicked the magical typewriter I sometimes get to use at _Charm,_ as I couldn’t very well be seen writing this at work. After a poorly executed shrinking spell, it fit in my purse, but weighed just the same.  Sneaking it out on Friday—and trying to look casual whilst sweating profusely with the effort—was quite a chore.

There’s a crick in my neck and, rubbing at the ache, I wave my wand so the parchment rolls itself up to the beginning.  At this slight movement, my stomach growls fiercely and Lisa shoots me a look; all I’ve eaten today is a stale Cauldron Cake found in the back of my cupboard.

She nudges her bowl of carrot sticks closer.  “Edie, eat your vegetables.”

Grumpily I take one and pretend it’s cheese.  As I munch, I can’t help but warily eye the Recordograph next to me.  The bell jar is just _brimming_ with the sounds of Oliver Wood’s transcript.  Unfortunately they are completely useless.

Against my judgment, I tap the Recordograph with my wand and hear my own voice, playing in my ears alone: _“Society’s quite different from when you first signed your contract with Puddlemere.  In many cases it’s better off.  What kinds of social changes would you like to see in this new, freer Wizarding world?”_

A pause.  _“That’s a bit heavy-handed for a lifestyle magazine, don’t you think?”_

My tension is audible.  _“Not really, no.”_

_“Alright… Well, obviously we all want to see a decrease in the wage gap, and for people to not go hungry, and to, y’know, save the whales and all.”_

_“You’re not really answering the question.”_

_“What do you want me to say?  Of course I want those things, but isn’t that what anybody wants?  I mean, were you hoping I’d say something terrible, like more money funneled into the Quidditch industry?”_

My cheeks flush even now with residual embarrassment—and anger that I let him get to me. _I_ was supposed to be in control.  _“So you admit that there’s too much money spent on Quidditch.”_

“No, _I didn’t say that.”_

_“Alright then, we’ll move on to the next question.  Do you have any thoughts on the recent events regarding Gringotts and their refusal to employ female Goblins?”_

Silence.

Impatiently, _“Don_ _’t you view that as a problem?”_

_“_ _Of course I do. But what does this have to do with Quidditch?”_

_“Well, from_ my _perspective—”_

_“Ah, here we go.”_

_“—as a professional athlete, you make well over six figures a year, which puts you in the position of being able to make a difference.  You can talk about what kinds of changes you want to see, but what have you done to make them happen?”_

My confidence dies out halfway through the question; even then I realized how ridiculous I had sounded.  In the recorded silence that follows I can see it again clearly: Wood furrowing his brow in an almost amused way, allowing the seconds to tick by, for me to sink into my humiliation.  There is an awkward bit of my shuffling paper and throat-clearing.

Wood’s voice comes very clearly, _“Next question.”_

_“Avoiding it again, are we?”_

_“I have every right to.  Next.  Question.”_ A pause and then he says, annoyed, _“Is this even what your editor wants you to be asking?  I flipped through_ Charm _this week to see what I was getting into and, I have to say, I_ really _doubt that they care about political—”_

I violently thwack my wand on the Recordograph and it goes quiet.  As if returning from a Pensieve, the afternoon light of my kitchen materializes around me once more.

Lisa watches with raised eyebrows.  “You look like you just listened to the last five minutes of _Grizzly Man._   Was he really that bad?”

The whole ordeal is embarrassing, and uncomfortable, and I feel completely unseated from my position of power as the interviewer.  And now she’s bringing the horrible Muggle film that Dean made us watch into the picture— _why_ he picked that one, instead of something nice like _Casablanca,_ we’ll never know. 

I groan, “Please just talk to me about something else.  Anything.”

“Oh, sure, I’ve just learned loads of interesting new information.  Apparently I’m supposed to wax _everything_ before the wedding.  Including my arms and chin.”

But I'm staring at the Recordograph again and Lisa snaps her fingers.  “Hey!”  She laughs at my miserable expression.  “Maybe he’s not as bad as you think.”

“You should know better, you _work_ at St. Mungo’s.” 

“Ah, yes,” she says sarcastically.  “The tragedy that is the children’s ward.”

Peering down at my writing, I read aloud, _“_ _Unfortunately, Wood falls a Quaffle’s throw short from philanthropist.  He was the only Puddlemere United team member who_ _refuse_ _d to donate ten percent of his end-of-year earnings to a St. Mungo’s charity drive.  Money earned from the 2005 fundraiser went towards the construction of a new children’s ward.  Wood’s team members Amelia Jones_ _and Peter Hanchett_ _each donated five percent, while team manager Philbert Deverill gifted an incredible fifteen.  Wood has consistently refused to comment on the matter.”_

“But we ended up getting the money, and some to spare!  That ward was built _ages_ ago, you know that.”

“Yeah, because Deverill fronted the rest.”

“Edie, come on.  Is it worth giving him a bad name _just_ because he pissed you off?”

“He didn’t _just_ piss me off, Lisa, you should have seen him!  I mean, we can start with the kissing me without asking thing—where does he get off on that?”

“All right, that’s pretty terrible.”

“And then it was one thing after another.  The rudeness, the tardiness to the interview, the refusal to cooperate, the— _sass_.”

“Such sass.”

“He’s sassy!”

Lisa pauses, rubbing a finger into the woodgrain of the table.  I’m hoping that she’s crafting a more foul insult, but instead she says carefully, “Just be _certain_ you know what you’re talking about before you print.  You could be very wrong about Oliver.”

I crack an unsure smile.  “Bit ominous, don’t you think?”

But she notices the clock on the wall and, with a little start, rises from her chair.  “Oh!  I’ve got to run.”  I feel like a pup whose owner is about to leave for work.

“But you’ve just got here!” I cry pathetically.  Clearing my throat, I try to act like a normal human.  “Where to, then?”

She avoids my gaze.  “Erm, cake tasting.”

A scandalized gasp escapes me and she says, quickly, “I know, I know, I said that I would do it with you, but Justin is _really_ into this whole planning thing!  It’s weird.  Isn’t he supposed to ignore me until the wedding night, and then ignore me again for, like, fifty more years?”

“Well, you’ve already had sex, so he’ll probably just ignore you straight through.”

“There’s that charm.”  She bends to ruffle my hair annoyingly.  “Sorry, Edie.  But I’ll see you soon, I promise.”

♔

I don’t bother to stifle my lion’s roar of a yawn.  It’s six o’clock in the morning and I’ve forgotten this hour even exists.  As per Rose’s request—demand, really—I am hunched over a table at a coffee shop, ready to hand over my final draft of the article.  This decision was reached despite my offering to owl it to her, leave it in her office, hide it under her doormat— _anything_ but this.  Two days ago at _Charm_ I found what I suppose she views as a cryptic message, left on my desk:

_Bring you-know-what to Alchemy Coffee on Wednesday.  
_ _Six o’clock sharp.  Come alone._

_— Anonymous_

Despite her attempts at mystique I stomped down to her office, waving the note over my head.  “I’m sure you don’t mean six o’clock in the _morning!”_

Apparently, she had.

And apparently, this deadline didn’t apply to her.  It’s ten after and still no sign of Rose.

“I’ll kill her,” I note as easily as if I had said, “It’s nice outside.”

Other than the “mysterious” note, I haven’t heard much from her, in her overly-dramatic efforts to not arouse suspicion.  The most we’ve exchanged was an offhand comment she made several days ago at _Charm,_ as we huddled around the coffee cauldron: “Well, I suppose now that I’m not officially the journalist on the job, I _could_ ask Wood out for a drink.”

Hot coffee had poured on my foot.  _“_ _Tell_ me that’s not why you gave me the article.  Rose, he’s the worst.”

But she had only given a cheeky smile.  “Cheers!”

In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been surprised.  Rose is smart but has a certain, erm, _agenda_ with men.

Again I scan the room for her, coming up short.  Just a bunch of early-rising hipsters muttering about smoking too many cigarettes and how many embarrassing photos were Instagraphed last night. 

My right elbow rests protectively near the roll of parchment, on which I have performed a number of water-resistant, flame-retardant, tear-proof charms.  I have proofread, edited, rewritten, and reworked.  The parchment is only two feet long; shorter than my final essays for Seventh-Year classes.  But I have to say, it’s some of my best work.

And I’m not getting any credit for it.

I unroll the parchment and the phrases “self-entitlement” and “out of control” jump out.  I skip down to the article’s conclusion.  By the time I had written it I was practically beside myself in anger.

_To no one’s surprise, Wood’s love life has remained majorly out of the limelight.  But any readers hoping for a chance run-in with this Keeper may be in luck.  In fact, you need not search any further than your local bar._

_Perhaps, then, this journalist has been wrong. Maybe Wood really is a philanthropist: the money not spent on a new children’s ward has gone towards keeping many local businesses thriving.  As long as those local businesses serve high-end Firewhiskey.  Drink up, ladies._

There is a whoosh of a small owl, dangerously close to my head.  It drops the latest issue of the _Oracle Underground_ onto the table and alights on the empty chair.  The front page bears a photograph of Grimma Longfinger beneath blocky text: _STRIKE THWARTED._

“Aw, no,” I _tsk_ in disappointment.

Originally scheduled for next month, I read, the strike on Gringott’s was kept as quiet as possible.  But the _Daily_ _Prophet_ did what it does best: turning rumours into front-page, misrepresented stories.  Word of the protest got out (according to the _Prophet_ _,_ the FGC would be providing complimentary Molotov Cocktails) and in response, Gringotts heightened security.  A number of Aurors now patrol the cobblestones outside.  Not an ideal setting for a protest.  The last thing an unemployed Goblin needs is a stint in Azkaban.

The owl shrieks impatiently, wiggling its foot so the small purse jingles.

“Oh, right.  Sorry.”

My clutch has been enchanted to fit a ridiculous number of items (including but not limited to: two lipsticks, an emergency supply of Pumpkin Pasties, and an Extendable Ear.)  If the owl could roll its eyes, it would, as I struggle to extract the eight Sickles.  At last I pass the coins over and, with a petulant hoot, it flies out the opening door.

Rose ducks to avoid a head-on collision before hurrying in with a whiff of expensive shampoo.  “Sorry, sorry!  I woke up so late, I barely had time to roll out of bed.”  But her makeup is artfully applied, Twilfitt and Tattings’ clothes carefully selected.

I decide that “Hmm,” is the safest response and fold my newspaper.  Rose sees what I’m reading and rolls her eyes.

“Can you believe the stories that rag publishes?  There’s no way they’re doing proper research.”

I don’t mention her complete lack of research for the Oliver Wood interview.  I also don’t mention how I am _very_ aware that Rose was declined a position with the _Oracle_ last year.

“I need a coffee.”  She moves tiredly toward the counter.

“Oh, sure, I’ll wait,” I call, slouching in my seat.  I’m becoming the world’s champion at sitting around, wasting time.  At least _she_ isn’t an hour late.

Was the interview a week ago already?  Everything has been so rushed—apparently Rose _did_ pawn the article off last-minute.  In the past seven days I have interviewed Wood, submitted a first draft to Mr. Ward (under Rose's name), edited the draft, and produced a final copy.   _Charm_ ’s new issue comes out this Friday…which means in only two days, we find out if my article is bad enough to have Rose sacked.

Not sure how I feel about that either way, I think, as I watch her laugh and touch the barista’s arm.  I honestly don’t think she can help it.  She was unofficially voted “Most Likely to Flirt with an Inanimate Object” at _Charm’s_ last Christmas party.

When Rose returns with her drink, her eyes land on the parchment, wavering between interest and unease.  She hasn’t read the draft I submitted; she was too busy with other projects.  As far as she knows, the whole story could be rubbish.

I try to sound nonchalant.  “All finished.”

“Brilliant.”  Suddenly the article is _A_ _ccio_ _’d_ from beneath me.  I feel like a beetle who has just had its leg plucked off by some kid.  “Thanks Edie. Of course, I’ll need to do some editing to make sure it’s up to snuff.  So no hard feelings.”

“Oh, of _course,”_ I say tersely.  Suddenly I want to snatch the parchment back, run to Mr. Ward’s office, and hand it over myself.  But I know he would never take an intern’s writing seriously.  And, really, I suppose I don’t want Rose to be sacked.

“Speaking of which, I’d better get to it.  Ta for now.”  With a final wave, she turns and Disapparates on the spot.

And there goes my very brief foray into journalism.

♔

Two days later, it’s publication day and I’m walking around _Charm_ on eggshells.  When Mildred arrives at my desk with new assignments, I stare so guiltily that _she_ hurries away uncomfortably.  Every time Ward summons me to his office I fear I’m going to be sacked.  Every owl swooping past is Rose, descending on me for producing such an awful rag under her name.  Suddenly I am doubting my decision.

I actually tiptoe past Tallulah Blakeslee’s office at one point, terrified.

But by two o’clock I haven’t been caught.  No explosions, no hexes, and no sacking… Maybe this whole ordeal has gone better than expected?  Unable to contain myself, I scurry through the corridors in search of an answer.

When I rap on Rose’s office somehow even the knock sounds panicked.  She’s located in the posh part of the building, with the gleaming white walls and nice floors.  I’ve seen her office before, but when I enter I’m still jealous of the trendy exposed brick wall; the window with a view of the Thames; the photographs lining the walls.  They feature her posing with various celebrities at the _Charm_ events that I’m never invited to.  A calorie-burning cauldron is tucked in a corner.

Rose stiffens when she sees me and starts making shooing motions.

I roll my eyes and shut the door.  “Better?” 

With a glare, she flicks her wand, performing a silencing charm around the room.  “Better.  Can I help you?”

“I just wanted to see how everything went. With, you know…”  She doesn’t speak, so I ask the question that I’ve been dying to know all day: “Did they like it?”

Rose’s face clouds over and she sifts through her parchments.  “Everything went fine.  I don’t know how Blakeslee feels about it.”

“You don’t?” I try not to sound too disappointed.

She takes off her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose, as if dealing with me is a great chore.  “Look, Edie, I know you don’t really interact with Blakeslee, so you don’t know how she is.  But she’s a very busy woman.  I can’t just march up there and ask her opinion on my article—”

“ _My_ article,” I interject hotly just as somebody knocks at the door.

We both freeze at the unmistakeable voice: “Miss Zeller?  It’s Tallulah.  May I come in?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This edit was very satisfying to do! A lot of improvements were made to Lisa's character, and she feels much more fleshed out now. I also feel that I had a better grasp of Oliver's character in later chapters, but not this one, and it feels more consistent. Whether you're a new reader or a returning one, let me know what you think in a review! ♥
> 
> Quite obviously, I don't own the movies "Grizzly Man" or "Casablanca" ;)


	6. Lessons in Chemistry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know you’re a columnist—” I shoot him a glare, by reflex, and he corrects, “Journalist, right. But it seems like we have to spend some more time together professionally, and I really let it get off on the wrong foot. The timing was…not great for me, personally, but it’s still my fault.”

CHAPTER SIX

♔

Lessons in Chemistry

 

Rose reacts first, in one swift movement grabbing my sleeve while undoing the silencing charm.  “Apparate out of here, _now!”_ she stage-whispers.

“No way!  I want to know what she thinks!”

“Are you—you _can’t_ be serious—”  But I won’t release her arm, now, and if I Apparate then she has to come with me.

The knock comes again, gently.  “Rose?”

With a surprising amount of force, she throws me towards the desk and mouths, _“HIDE!”_ probably along with some less savory words.  I duck beneath it, pulling the chair back in just as the door swings open.

I imagine Rose standing with a winning smile, the perfect balance of professional and friendly.  “Ms. Blakeslee, hi!  So sorry about that, I was just Floo-chatting with my Mum.  She’s being a _bit_ _insane_ right now!”  Her voice raises pointedly and I scowl.

“It’s quite all right.  Do you have a moment?”

“Yes, of course!”

With my knees drawn in and my head smooshed against them, I look like a baby bird about to hatch, and can’t see a thing.  But I can imagine tall and willowy Tallulah Blakeslee, who seems to never wear an ounce of color, striding in with her short white-blonde hair pushed back fetchingly (seriously, Draco Malfoy must have taken a page from her book.) 

“I wanted to have a word about your Oliver Wood story.”

Thud.  I have swallowed my heart, and am now going to choke on it, I’m certain.  Rose falters only a moment.  “R-right.  Was it… satisfactory?”

I strain to hear, in Ms. Blakeslee’s tone of voice, any indication that she’s on to us.  But she almost laughs; a rare occurrence.  “Please, do relax, Rose.  Should we have a seat?”

There is the sound of the lone armchair being pulled across the floor, and I realize that she means for Rose to return to her desk.  

“Oh—erm—of course.”

Stiffly, she comes to stand before me and pulls her chair out.  I avert my eyes awkwardly as she turns her knees away, to avoid giving me a rather friendly view. 

_This is it.  We’ve been found out, and Rose is going to be sacked, and I can’t even technically_ be _sacked because I was never a real employee anyway, and I take back everything, I’ll clean the Floo chimneys and pick up Ward’s sandwiches and drink the god-awful coffee, just_ please _don’t let us be sacked—_

“Artie and I were quite impressed with your work.”

I jerk my head up.  Rose is doing an awful job of not appearing shocked.  “You really liked it?”

I pinch her leg and she returns it with a swift kick. 

Blakeslee’s voice holds an air of confusion.  “You seem…surprised.”

“No, sorry, that came out wrong.  I only meant that I was concerned because before this assignment I knew so little about Quidditch.”

“Well, if you wrote a story so well researched without preexisting knowledge, that’s all the more impressive.  Your decision to expose the underbelly of Wood’s character is an interesting angle, considering the stories many other young women write about an attractive athlete.”

I’m not sure how I feel about this remark, but Rose shoos the thought away.  “Please, I’m only grateful for your approval.”

I nearly vomit on her shoes.  But Blakeslee is not easily won by flattery, either.  “We want to offer the opportunity for a follow-up story.”

My heart stops.  And apparently Rose’s does too, because there is a long silence.  “A follow-up.”

“Yes.  Two, actually.  We’re receiving a _lot_ of positive feedback from readers.  We want to develop _Charm’s_ Quidditch section further, focusing on a different athlete each month—sports writing, aimed at young women.  We want to make Quidditch interesting to them.  Make it sexy.  A sort of ironic response to _Quidditch Quarterly’s_ centerfolds of women athletes, if you will.”

Ironic.  Right.

“Rose, I really cannot express how significant it is that we secured these interviews.  Wood is absolutely _huge_ right now, after his comeback to Quidditch, and we have to take advantage of this opportunity.  I’ve already spoken with Deverill and their head of PR, Katie Bell—no other publication will have access to in-depth interviews.”

Rose at last manages to say, “Wow.  This is—”

“Quite an honor, for you,” Blakelsee finishes in a warning tone.  “ _Charm_ doesn’t often redirect an entire project, based on a writer’s performance.”

It’s clear, now: Rose doesn’t have a choice in the matter.

She must come to the same conclusion, and with a smile rises back to her feet.  They shake hands over my hiding place.  “Of course, I’ll get started straight away.  Thank you, Ms. Blakeslee.”

The conflicting feelings are hard to untangle in the mess of my hammering pulse: the rush of receiving high praise, anger for not being given credit, anxiety as to how Rose could possibly continue the lie. 

Blakeslee asks, “Isn’t that Edie Lennox’s mug?”

To my horror, I realize that my coffee was left sitting on the desk: the daft one that Seamus gifted me, of course, with my own stupid, winking face on it.  I nearly groan aloud when I remember that it says INTERN OF THE YEAR.

But, once more, Rose’s performance is seamless.  “Oh!  Yes, she popped by earlier.  I’ll have to return it.”

“She’s a funny one, isn’t she?  It’s a shame we couldn’t find a permanent spot for her.  But Artie and I trust your judgment.”

This time, Rose can’t erase her look of horror quickly enough, and I see it clearly.  There is a burning in my chest like I’ve drank scalding hot tea.  Has Rose done something to prevent me from being promoted?  There have been numerous positions to open at _Charm_ in my time here, but I never made it past the first interview.  I always thought it was just too competitive.

Blakeslee raps on the desk conclusively.  “Excellent.  Let’s meet again to discuss our next move with the Wood stories.  I’ll set something up with Artie and send you an owl.”

“Y-yes, that sounds brilliant.  Thank you.”

“We’re glad to have you on board with this, Rose.”

As soon as the door clicks I barrel, ungracefully, from beneath the desk.  Rose says, “Edie, wait—”

I pause to fix her with a stony glare, and she hands me the mug.  “You forgot this.”

Before I can hex her I Apparate with a loud crack, away from _Charm,_ to see the one person who could help make sense of it all.

 

♔

 

The Welcome Witch at St. Mungo’s is probably the most inaptly named human on the face of the planet. Dolores scarcely smiles, or blinks.  Or breathes.  The most emotion I have ever seen her display was when she chipped a tooth on a bit of treacle fudge—and even then she only frowned a bit and went on ignoring me as I stood waiting.  Even though I have spoken to her a thousand times on my visits to Lisa, she always pretends that she has no idea who I am.

“Hi Dolores,” I say breathlessly.

“Please sign in.”  She prods a quill and inkwell toward me.

“Come on, you _know_ me!  I gave you my extra burrito once—oh, sod it.”

I scribble the insane amount of information St. Mungo’s requires before Dolores tosses me a tarnished bronze medallion marked VISITOR.  Slipping it over my neck, I wait for approximately a century while she studies her parchment.  At last she croaks, “Ground floor, room 2B.”

I blink at her, suddenly very curious as to what her flat looks like, before jetting off to find Lisa.

The Ground Floor is where one is treated for artifact accidents—cauldron explosions, broom-crashes and the like—but they also take care of bone injuries.  (I learned this last year, when Seamus Splinched himself and had to regrow a toe.)  I hurry past a young Wizard, his face blackened with soot.  “But the wand was still under _warranty.”_

This is certainly one of the tamer areas of the hospital.  Thankfully Lisa isn’t working with Creature-Induced Injuries today.  I made the mistake of meeting her there before lunch one afternoon.  Fun fact: it only takes one chance run-in with an Acromantula bite victim to faint in the middle of a corridor.

I clamber up the stairs of the cathedral-like stairwell and into room 2B, where the beds are partitioned with sterile white curtains.  Immediately I spot Lisa at the far end of the room.  And even in her hospital robes, with her hair in a bird’s nest and sleepless rings around her eyes, she looks like a model.  Jerk.

She’s with a patient, but I figure with enough frantic hand-signaling she’ll come talk to me.  I barrel past the rows of partitioned beds.  I’m unspotted as Lisa grinds something with a mortar and pestle, chatting happily to her patient, a shirtless wizard with his back to me.

When Lisa notices what probably looks like a freight train coming at her, her eyes grow wide and she almost imperceptibly shakes her head.  But I have already started my wild gesticulations, as if I could possibly say with my hands, _“My story has been extended into a three-part series, and Rose is taking credit, also I think she blocked me from getting a job.”_

But I freeze.  Lisa’s patient is Oliver Wood.

He turns and does a double-take, horror on his face.  “Are you… _spying_ on me?”

Instead I say to Lisa, “Sorry miss, I have the wrong room!”

Then I turn and bolt.  What are the _odds_ that she’s treating him today?  Worse—what if he saw the article?  St. Mungo’s keeps dozens of copies of _Charm_ in their waiting room, an indicator to the quality of journalism.

I walk faster.

There is a commotion behind me and I hear Lisa calling, “Actually, I should really take your blood pressure!” followed by footsteps.

I pick up the pace to an impressive speed-walk and am a bit winded by the time I reach the stairwell, but of course the professional athlete gains on me in no time.

“Hey.”  He cuts me off at the landing and I’m forced to stop in my tracks.  He’s put his olive green jumper back on and it’s inside-out in his haste.

“Hello.  Hi.”  Then I add, “Alright?”

“I’m well, thanks.  Alright?”

“Well, thanks.”

Painful silence.  The afternoon sun is pouring in through the high medieval windows, illuminating the passersby and the marble stairs.  It’s a pleasant scene, but I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt this uncomfortable.

“So…you’re _sure_ that you’re not spying on me,” he says.

I shake my head no, unable to make eye contact.

“Right, bad joke, sorry.”

“Oh?”

“What’s that?”

“I just didn’t know—I didn’t know that you were joking.”

He scratches his cheek.  “Yeah, should probably give up the standup comedy dream.”

Another agonizing silence.  For what feels like the first time I can’t think of a single thing to say.  Instead I focus my attention on a plump witch, struggling to carry an enormous bouquet of flowers that look as though they may bite.

He tries, “So... How’s the article coming, anyway?”

My gaze snaps to him at last.  He doesn’t know.

But now that I’m really _looking_ at him, I’m distracted by how different he seems.  His black eye has vanished, his wavy hair is without too much product, and he’s in street clothes.  No mysterious stains or stupid sunglasses—I reckon this is what normal Oliver Wood looks like.  But there’s something else…

Finally, I respond with a neutral, “The article’s going fine, thanks.”

“Brilliant.  Uh, I hope I wasn’t too... horrible.  During the interview.”

My voice is too high-pitched.  _“No,_ you were…fine.”

He snorts.  “That was a terrible lie, but thank you.”

I accidentally return the smile.  He says, nervously, “Erm, I’m glad to run into you, though.  I was going to pop in at the pub sometime.  I was just asking your friend where it was because, well, I don’t quite recall.”

“How d’you know Lisa’s my friend?”

“You’re not the only detective around here,” he says ominously.  At my nervous look he laughs.  “She was with you at the bar.  I recognized her as my Mediwitch but, y’know, patient confidentiality and all.”

“That sneaky little monkey,” I murmur.  She’s known him this whole time, and never said anything!

“Wait, you wanted to see me at work?”

He grins, “Well, hopefully, if I could even be allowed back.  I don’t know if that kind of exile is a life-long sentence, or what.  I wanted to apologize for being such an ass.”

“Oh?”

“I know you’re a columnist—” I shoot him a glare and he corrects, “Journalist, right, sorry.  Either way, it seems we have to spend more time together professionally, and we really got off on the wrong foot.  The timing of the interview was…not great for me, personally, but still.  It’s my fault.”

Suddenly I realize what it is about Wood that seems so different.  He’s not behaving like some entitled, rude, condescending celebrity—he’s acting like a normal human being.  There’s a small pang of guilt in my stomach for how I portrayed him.  But something else he said is tugging at my brain.

_“‘Not great timing,’”_ I repeat.

He laughs.  “Sorry, you’ll have to try harder than that.”

“Consider the challenge accepted.”  
  
We seem to realize it at the same time: we’re actually _flirting_.  I cross my arms and he clears his throat.  “Well, I should get back.  Lisa is probably—” 

We turn to see her spying from the doorway.  When she realizes she’s been caught, she pretends to scribble something on her clipboard and hurries off.  Subtle.  But I know she and I will be elbows-deep in her vegan ice cream and gossip soon enough.

“Well, it was nice running into you...”  He trails off uncertainly, extending a hand.

“Edie.”  I return his grip firmly.  “Nice seeing you too, Wood.”

That wry smirk is back.  “You’re not writing _now._ It’s Oliver.”

I press my lips together to keep from smiling.  It seems impossible that anyone could spend more than four seconds around Lisa and still find another woman attractive.  But he’s looking at me in an amused way, as if he can’t quite figure me out, and I remind myself to let go of his hand.

_Big hands, too._

I take a backwards step down the stairs, preparing for a patent hair-toss.  “Alright.  Oliver, then— _SHIT!”_  

The plump witch with the enormous bouquet has reappeared, and I trip over her foot.  Everything moves in slow-motion as my flailing arm smacks her square in the face.  With a shriek I topple backwards down the stairs, bringing the poor woman with me, and land hard on my back.  The witch rolls to a stop nearby.

As I lay wheezing with the air knocked from my lungs, my horror is not over the possibility broken bones or a concussion.  No, it’s because I didn’t pass out, and am fully conscious to watch Oliver Wood running down the stairs after me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots more conniving and backstabbing--and fluff and flirting--to come. In this new version, Rose played a role in keeping Edie as an intern. Intrigue! Please let me know what you think ♥


	7. Hell Hath No Fury Like Rose Zeller Scorned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you _still_ on about that?”
> 
> “Absolutely not.” When Dean quirks an eyebrow in disbelief I sigh. “It just really miffs me—”
> 
> “I’m sorry, _miffs?”_
> 
> “—that she’s here like this, pretending to be interviewing him, when clearly she’s just out for free drinks!”

CHAPTER SEVEN

♔

Hell Hath No Fury Like Rose Zeller Scorned

 

“Oi!  Pay attention.”  Lisa thwacks my head with her clipboard.  “I’m trying to see if you’re concussed. 

“I’m _not_ concussed!”

Back in Room 2B, I’ve been placed under Lisa’s care, if you could call it that.  Though I’m meant to be following the light at the end of her wand, my eyes instead keep darting across the room to Oliver Wood.

I suppose it was polite of him to insist that she take care of me, putting his own appointment on hold, but it also means he is present for its entirety.  Maybe he can’t see me, but I can see him through a gap in the partition—sitting with a paper cup of tea, he suddenly massages his jaw, trying to repress his laughter.  I know he’s playing the image of me tumbling down an entire flight of stairs, over and over, like one of the paparazzi photos in _Charm._

“Edie!”

“Fine, sorry.”  I train my eyes on Lisa’s wand, following its every move until she seems satisfied.

She plops beside me.  “Well, your wrist is definitely sprained, but you don’t have a concussion.  I think Mrs. Dobbins took the brunt of your fall—” Even Lisa dissolves into fits of laughter. 

Mrs. Dobbins, however, does not see the humor in the situation, and glowers at us from her bed where she holds an ice-pack to her forehead.  The enormous bouquet lies in a crumpled heap.

“Stop it!” I slap her arm.  At her little outburst, Oliver has glanced across the room and our eyes meet through the partition.

She catches us and says, as she tapes my swollen wrist, “See, not so terrible, is he?”

“Not right _now_ he isn’t.”  Being nice to the person who could ruin your public image does not a gentleman make.

“I don’t know, it seemed like you two were getting along back there.”  At my deadpan she sighs, “Oh, come on, I don’t get to flirt anymore.  Let me live vicariously through you.”

“You can do that when I’m actually _flirting.”_ I’m unwilling to admit defeat and that, for one moment, I was distracted by a celebrity’s good looks.  I change the subject.  “Speaking of your perfect love life, are we still on for wedding dress shopping next week?”

“Sure are.  Now who’s living vicariously?”

Lisa pulls the curtain back, and I pretend not to notice Oliver glancing over as she says, “I’ll get you an elixer for the sprain.  Should be back to normal in a few hours.”

She closes me in again and I call out, “Toss some extra Painkilling Potions in there, will you?”

She thinks I’m joking, but one of these days, maybe…

It hits me again that in just a matter of months, she’ll be married.  A winter wedding in a seaside Italian village.  Because her life isn’t quite picturesque enough.  They had split up, and Justin was travelling when he saw a beautiful sculpture that made him realize he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.  Or something?  Bit cheesy if you ask me, but she likes it.  He Apparated back to London at that very moment, without a ring or a plan—very unlike him so it must be real—and asked her to marry him.

I was on the sofa eating crisps when it happened.  Lisa and I were still living together, and he didn’t realize I was home.  Lisa had flung open the door to yell at him.  But when he got down on one knee she screamed, and then cried, and then they both cried, and then they had very loud sex, and I hid in my bedroom.

The partition whips back again to reveal none other than Justin, in his trademark fully-buttoned cardigan.  “Heard you took a nasty spill!” 

I genuinely don’t think he tries to be annoying.  He can’t help it.  _“How_ did you—?”

“Oliver, of course,” he says, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.  Across the room, the Scotsman is pretending to be engrossed in a medical dictionary.  “Known him for ages.”

“What?  How?”

Lisa returns with my potions and gives Justin a quick kiss.  “I’ll be ready in just a minute.  Did you say hi to Oliver?”

I stare at her incredulously.  “Are you all _friends?”_

“Kind of.”  At my expression she shrugs one shoulder, “Patient confidentiality!  Here.  Take one of these with a meal.  Don’t Apparate, don’t fly your broom, don’t do complex magic.  And Edie— _no beer.”_

♔

When I tell people that my flat is “nestled among the shops of Diagon Alley,” what I really mean is “shoved crudely between two buildings.”  It’s scarcely wider than the doorframe, but thankfully somewhere along the way, a tenant performed some expansion spells.  While the flat isn’t exactly spacious—just a bedroom, a loo, and a kitchen-den-dinette-storage amalgamation—I shudder to think of the original.

As I head out to run an errand, the evening air is crisp and tinged with a slight chill.  I tap my wand three times and the lock clicks.  The weekend crowds are in full swing, and I wait for my moment to hop into the stream of pedestrians like a salmon.  It’s amazing that just ten years ago, you couldn’t walk these streets alone, and now it feels completely safe. 

Big ups, Harry Potter.

I make a quick stop in Ashe and Plume to support a habit I’m not particularly proud of.  I’m _going_ to quit, and soon.  Lisa thinks I already have.  But Harold, the old wizard who seems permanently attached to the register, already has my pack of choice waiting.

“Last time, eh Lennox?”  He laughs, and I swear that actual ashes wheeze from his lungs. 

“Last time!”  I barely clear the exit before lighting a cigarette.

With one hand shoved in the pocket of my parka I make my way down the cobblestones.  Now that the sun has set the passers-by are pulling their scarves tighter against the night’s chill.  People are chattering and music drifts from the pubs as I pass.  It’s a nice scene and, compacted with the rare Friday night off work from the Poisoned Apple, I’m feeling quite content.

_“_ _Pssst.”_  

At first, I ignore the voice but then it comes again, louder this time.  _“PSSSSSSST!”_

Rose Zeller is standing at the mouth of an alleyway.  She’s wearing sunglasses despite the darkness, and the red hood of her coat is cinched tightly around her face like an Eskimo.  She stands stiffly, I suppose trying to appear casual, but she looks more constipated than anything.

After a moment’s hesitation—partially because I’m still upset, partially because I need to fully commit the image to memory—I make my way over.  I stare at her.  She stares back.  Then she spots my cigarette and makes a sour face.

“What the hell are you doing?” I say irritably.

“Follow me,” Rose darts into the alleyway.  Seems she’s been reading too many of those _Gwendolyn Phire: Witch Detective_ paperbacks that I’ve noticed on her desk.  (Each installment in the thirty-book series is just another excuse for gratuitous smut followed by, “Oh, wait. We’re supposed to look for that murderer.”)

Against my better judgment I follow her.  When she’s reached a satisfactory distance, she turns and folds her arms.  “Okay, we have a problem.”

“Uh, yeah, I’d say we do!  You get to write two more articles based on _my_ work.”

“You knew going in to this that you wouldn’t get credit,” she says, and she’s right.  I drag sullenly on the cigarette.  “I just didn’t think Blakeslee was going to like it.”

“Really, don’t hold back.”

“Oh, come on Edie, you’re an _unpaid intern.”_  

“With no help from you!  Have you been keeping me from getting a _job?”_

She says, her chin lifted indignantly, “They asked for my recommendation, and I gave them one.  It was nothing personal.”

“Clearly,” I retort. 

“Okay.  Look.  Edie, I’m…”  She looks like she’s trying to choke down a Flobberworm.   _“Sorry.“_

Well this is a first. 

“I was… _hoping_ … that you would write the other two articles.”

“What?” I furrow my brows.  “This is ridiculous, just write them yourself.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t.  Wait, Edie!”  She grabs my arm but I shake her off, and am about to turn onto the street when she shouts, “YOU’RE A BETTER WRITER THAN ME, OKAY?”

I stop in my tracks.

Oh.

Oh-ho- _ho!_

Rose fixes her hair, as if unphased, but her face has gone color of her coat.  She says offhandedly, “I’ll pay you fifteen Galleons per article.”

I scoff, “You’re joking.  Make it twenty-five.”

“Fine, twenty-five!”

After a brief staring contest, and despite everything my conscience is telling me, I nod.  “Great.  Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Brilliant,” she brushes past me, disappearing into the crowds of Diagon Alley. 

I remain in the alleyway, dragging on the cigarette like a sullen teenager, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.  Two more stories.  Two opportunities to be a real, published writer.  I crush the cigarette on the brick wall, shoving it back into the pack.  Two more interviews with Oliver Wood. 

♔

“I’m buying you a shot.”

“Please God no.”

“I _said_ I’m _buying_ you a _shot.”_  

Seamus is entirely too resolute, probably because he feels guilty for ambushing my interview.  “Just because you went off and got yourself a big-girl journalism job doesn’t mean you have to go acting like an old lady.”

I bite back a smile.  “It’s not a _job...”_

He beckons to the barman, my manager, “Angus! Yes please, mate.”

Seamus and Dean were the first to know.  On my walk home, I contacted them on my two-way compact mirror.  (It has led to the awkward situation of applying lipstick as Seamus watched, uncomfortable.  When he appeared, saying, “Uhhh, looks great?” I screamed and smeared a red line across my cheek.)

I told myself earlier that I was going for one beer.  It seems that, in the nights I had spent writing the Quidditch article, I’d forgotten exactly what going to a bar with Seamus Finnegan entails.

“Don’t you have Auror training in the morning?”

He waves me off.  “Eh.  Half the recruits show up hung over or worse.”

I try to imagine running ten miles and then being jetted with an _Aguamenti_ spell while nursing a hangover.  But Seamus does things like that surprisingly often.  The man is a saint.

We wait for our Firewhiskeys while Angus gruffly helps a group of girls who don’t look old enough to be here.  This is bizarre, since The Poisoned Apple is usually the place for older, seedier customers.  The dodginess is half of its charm, plus as an employee, I rarely have to clean.

Angus finally makes his way over with our shots, shaking his head of shaggy gray hair.  His moustache is frazzled.  “Sorry you two.  Reckon the Hogwarts Express made a pit-stop.”

“And you’re complaining?” Seamus eyes the girls, clustered like gazelles as they look around anxiously.

I slap the bar. _“_ _I_ know what it is!  They’re looking for all those Quidditch players.  They must’ve heard about the other night.”

Angus rolls his eyes. “’S right, it was in the tabloids.   _Crystal Ball’s_ got a whole spread—”

He sees our raised eyebrows and mutters, “Uh, the wife, she reads ‘em…”

Another flock of young women approaches the bar, and Angus trudges over, grumbling.  I ask Seamus, “Are you sure you don’t want to stand with them?  You’ll have a better chance at getting Wood’s attention if you borrow a skirt.”

“Fucking hilarious, you are,“ he says, but his eyes light up at the mention of Wood.

“Oi, oi, oi.”  Dean slides into the empty seat beside me, eyeing the shots.  “I can’t believe you didn’t wait for me!”

Within seconds he has a shot in hand; Angus likes him the best because he’s the quietest.  Dean raises his glass.  “To Edie, who now proudly boasts a kind-of real job.”

“To kind-ofs!”

Seamus echoes me, except at the ridiculously loud volume at which he only operates the second there are shots in hand.  We clink our glasses and knock them back, grimacing at the familiar burn of cheap alcohol.

The second toast goes to Dean for getting me into _Charm_ in the first place, and the third to Seamus because he felt left out.  Needless to say... Well.

“Poke them!”  Seamus lifts his shirt to expose his stomach, where apparently there are new Auror muscles emerging.  “Seriously, poke them, come on!  It’s like marble.  With hair.”

Dean and I are doubled over in laughter, and he is actually reaching over to poke Seamus’s belly when the bar goes quiet.  I follow everyone’s gaze to the door.  There is a lurching feeling that has nothing to do with the sheer amount of alcohol in my system.

Oliver Wood has just arrived—with Rose Zeller.

Seamus freezes, his gurgle of excitement completely audible in the quiet.  To Oliver, it must appear that Seamus is flashing him, and a look of alarm crosses his face, before he spots me.  But Rose is already touching his arm, pointing to a table in the corner.

“Is that...?” Dean begins.

“Yes,” I say stonily. “Yes, it is.” 

Though she ignores us, they pass close enough that I can smell her perfume.  The conversation swells once more, laced with the hushed whispers of excitement.

I know why she’s here and what she’s trying to say.  Rose can’t have my story but now she _can_ have him—the way that I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.  Which I don’t.  Oliver stands to remove his coat and our eyes meet briefly from across the room.  I jerk my beer up so quickly that it audibly thunks against my tooth.  Oliver presses his mouth into a line.

♔

 

“...Leg, leg, leg, _leg!_ _”_ Dean’s voice finally infiltrates the angry buzz in my head.  I’ve been kicking him in the shin.  “Jesus Christ, Lennox!”

“Sorry,” I grumble, clumsily bringing my pint to my lips.

Although I’ve been trying to ignore Oliver and Rose for the past thirty minutes, their table is by no coincidence directly in my line of sight.  I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of staring, but each time I sip from my beer I see them through the bottom of the glass.

“It’s been half an hour, let it go,” Dean says.

But, of course, I don’t let it go.  As the night progresses, clusters of people approach their table to talk to Oliver.  He seems embarrassed to receive their attention, politely shaking hands, signing coasters and posing for photographs.  He’s being completely humble, which is annoying.  Even more annoying is that with his back to me, I can’t help but notice the way his jumper is stretching across his broad shoulders—oh, stop it, Firewhiskey.

Everyone casts jealous looks at the stunningly pretty woman across from him… whose shirt is absolutely _bonkers_ low-cut, I might add.  Like, we _get it,_ Elvira.

A part of me has to marvel at the way she knows exactly how to work each of her best assets; playing with her long chestnut hair, leaving her full lips slightly parted, folding her arms across the table to push her—erm—ample bosom together.

“It’s just ‘cause she’s got a huge rack,” I grumble.

Dean stares in disbelief.  I have just interrupted a story that I didn’t even know he was telling.  “Are you _still_ on about that?”

“Absolutely not.”  When he quirks an eyebrow in disbelief I sigh. “It just really miffs me—”

“I’m sorry, _miffs?”_

“—that she’s here like this, pretending to be on the job, when clearly she’s just out for free drinks!”

“Whether he’s buying her drinks or not, it has absolutely nothing to do with your article!  And if it’s a date, then it’s a date!  What does it matter anyway?”

That’s not a question that I’m in the right state of mind to consider.  “It doesn’t matter, you’re right.  I guess I’m just upset about my work going unnoticed again.”

“Sure,” Dean mutters, entirely unconvinced.

Seamus, who has been surprisingly quiet on the subject, offers, “She _does_ have a huge rack, though.”

I glower into my pint.


	8. Mother/Matchmaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m sorry,” my mum says. “I worry about you, Edie. I’m proud of you for being so independent. Merlin knows that I was just like you. But I don’t want you to neglect other things in life. They’re important, too.”
> 
> I snort derisively, sipping from my mimosa. “Trust me. _I’m_ not the one neglecting _them.”_

CHAPTER EIGHT 

♔

Mother/Matchmaker

 

I awake the next morning Braham Stoker-style, hissing at the sunlight and furling the sheets over my head.  My head is pounding, my stomach is turning, and my eyes are dry and heavy.  Between the Firewhiskey and cigarettes I smell like a pub dumpster.  You’d think by now I would have learned to avoid the common factor between me and monstrous hangovers: Seamus. 

I can’t imagine how _he’s_ fairing.  My arm shoots out from the depths of my covers and pounds around my bedside cabinet, searching for the clock as if it were a bug that needed squishing.  It’s after 11:00.  Seamus has been at Auror training for hours, and he was even worse off than me by the end of the night.

Ugh.  Last night.

I was determined to outlast Oliver and Rose at the bar, a stupid decision that resulted in being entirely more intoxicated than desired.  They left around ten o’clock.  When they passed by us, Dean had just said offhandedly, “They say it might snow this weekend,” and I threw my head back in uproarious laughter.

“That’s _brilliant,_ ” I touched his arm.  He narrowed his eyes but chose not to respond, bless him.

I had really thought that Rose and Oliver were going to walk straight past. But they stopped behind our three barstools.

“Hi,” he’d said to me in a friendly voice.  “Finnigan, Thomas.”

Seamus giggled behind his hand and Dean raised his eyebrows in mild surprise.  Unprepared with a witty comment, I only stared.  We probably looked completely, one hundred percent cool and sane.

Oliver tried, “Deverill tells me that you’ll be doing two more articles, then.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”  Rose and I shared a quick glance.

“Reckon you’re putting up with me for a bit longer.  ‘Congratulations’ doesn’t feel like the right word.”

Before I could respond, Rose beamed, “Oh, it’s hardly _putting up_ with you, Oliver.”

To my surprise he seemed to not have heard her, eyes fixed on me.  Or maybe it was just the alcohol; my head felt full of Nargles.

Rose’s eyes travelled from Oliver to me slowly, knowingly, and then she said, “So, how’re you feeling after that fall earlier?”

I clutched my glass.  Wait, how did _Rose_ know?  She was smiling widely, eyes twinkling with either laughter or the fires of hell—I can’t be sure.  Meanwhile, Oliver had gone beetroot.

“Fall?” Seamus said excitedly.

I said quickly, “It was nothing.”

Oliver tried to cover his tracks, “Did you hear it’s supposed to snow this weekend?”

Rose shifted her weight so that her shoulder touched Oliver’s.  “Oh, come on Edie!  It’s actually a really _great_ story.” 

“Yes!”  Seamus pounded his fists on his thighs, “Tell us!”

Dean pushed my shoulder gently.  “Yeah, come on.”

Normally this story would not have been so horrible to tell, especially after we’d all had a few.  In fact, I would rather talk about my blunders than my achievements any day.  But I did _not_ want Rose to have the satisfaction of hearing it from my own mouth.  

Everyone was watching me intently—except Oliver, who was squinting at the ceiling.  I shrugged and brought my glass closer.  “I just... fell today when I went to see Lisa at St. Mungo’s.”

“Down an entire flight of stairs!  Oh, and you forgot to mention the other witch.”  Rose touched Oliver’s arm, “Didn’t Edie give her a concussion?”

“What!” Seamus exclaimed.  “How are we not hearing about this until now?!”  

Everyone but Oliver and I laughed heartily.  Seamus threw an arm around my shoulder to show that it was all in good jest.  Unfortunately, I did not see the humor in it.

But Oliver broke up the laughter with a sudden, “Well, I’d better be going.” 

Rose flashed a smile, hand still on his arm, “Would you walk me home?  I’ve had one too many vodkas.”

“Oh.”  He seemed surprised.  Dean took a long, awkward sip of beer at the implication.  “Of course.  Well, see you lot later.”

In response I downed the rest of my beer while Rose linked her arm through Oliver’s.  I don’t think I said much after that, settling my bill shortly after and stumbling home alone.

_“Guh,”_ I squish my pillow over my face.  Rose is quite the mastermind when it comes to social sabotage.  I could’ve told her to sod off at the pub, but then I’d have looked like a self-important ass who can’t take a joke.  I should have laughed it off, but I was too drunk, too caught off-guard, and too seriously angry with Wood for telling her in the first place.

Gathering all my motivation, I swing one leg off the bed, allowing it to dangle pathetically.  Even that sends my head spinning and I groan.  I’ll be here for _hours._   Suddenly the fireplace, which I had been too pissed to charm to life last night, bursts into a roaring flame.

“Edie?” comes a worried voice, “Edie, are you alright?”

Oh no.

“Edie, answer me or I’m Apparating over there this instant!”

Unable to move, I call with a cigarette-hoarsened voice, “Mum, I’m _fine!”_

I know that my mother’s head is hovering in the green flames.  I can just picture her scowl, because it looks exactly like mine.  Same freckles, same brown eyes.  Slowly I rise to my elbows to see that her hair has been cut short in the last few weeks, and a floral scarf is tied around her head.  My Mum, the artist.

“What are you doing still asleep?  I thought we had plans!”

“Plans?  Mum, I don’t remember making any—”

“I must’ve sent you three owls on the matter!” she cries indignantly.  

My eyes dart to the pile of unopened letters on my bedside cabinet.  I’m terrible at checking owl post.  It’s almost always employment rejection letters or Gringotts’s notices about dwindling funds.  Most younger folks have two-way mirrors now, but my mum has yet to jump on the bandwagon.  Too “contemporary,” apparently.

She must have noticed the stack of envelopes, because she’s making her Disappointed Face.  

I rub my temple, “I’m sorry Mum, I’ve just been so busy.  Could we maybe reschedule?”

“Well Edie, if I’d known that spending time with your own mother was such a bother, then of course I would _never_ have _dared_ to trouble—”

“So, what are we doing today, then?” I force a smile.

She looks satisfied.  “Come to the studio in thirty minutes.  I thought we could get breakfast.”  Then, because is physically incapable of not giving her opinion on every matter, “Though it will actually be _lunch_ by then, of course.”

I wonder where I get it from.

It takes everything I’ve got to drag myself out of bed and get ready for breakfast with my Mum.  Partially because of the hangover.  Partially because I must cram the several days’ mental preparation that her visits require into the space of thirty minutes. 

Hypatia Lennox is a caring, intelligent and hard-working witch.  But she’s also loopy, a control-freak, and most certainly smothering.  Since my twenty-fifth birthday last April she’s become quite involved with my romantic life, or lack thereof.  She’s convinced that nobody in their right mind would marry one of my three younger brothers (is she wrong?)  So, in her opinion, I’m her only hope for a grandchild.  And apparently my biological clock is ticking.

To my surprise, saying “ _Accio_ somewhat presentable dress!” works.  My mother would be affronted if I appeared in anything less for our first meal together in weeks.  After three glasses of water, a teaspoon of Hector’s Hangover Helper, and a minute spent un-smudging last night’s makeup, I Apparate to my Mum’s studio—

Bad idea.

Not only have a missed the studio by several blocks, but I’ve vomited in Mr. Higgs’ garden.

But I _do_ feel much better.  The sun is out, the air is fresh, and Hector’s powder is kicking in—at last my stomach is settling.

Heathfield is near the Seven Sisters and hasn’t changed a bit since I was born.  It’s a tiny little village where everyone knows each other, and everyone works a blue-robe job.  As I head down the street, I spot my mum’s studio, a small brick building with a bright yellow door, over which hangs the sign _Art by Hypatia._

From the outside my Mum and stepfather appear to be the ideal, hip parents.  In reality, they’re just as barking mad as the rest, except they enjoy sneaking behind the studio for some magical “herbs” every so often.

My mum makes little to no money selling her art—a touchy subject—and supplements as a pastry chef at Bylgia’s Bakery.  Andrew, my stepfather, brings a little money to the table as a small-time jazz musician.  He’s a Muggle and fought in Vietnam.  Ever since, he hasn’t been able to hold a steady job.  My siblings and I have always pulled our own weight, from paper routes on broomsticks to dog-walking.

Just as I reach the studio door, it is jerked open.  “Daughter!”  My mother throws her arms in the air.  She’s wearing a long paisley dress and cowboy boots, plus the head-scarf.  She pulls me into a violent hug.  I’m glad I’ve already emptied my stomach, with all the squeezing.

“Come in!  There’s somebody I’d like you to meet.”

I make a conscious effort not to groan.  It’s nice that my parents are social, now that we’ve all flown the nest, but her choice of company makes me want to pull my eyes out.  If I had a Sickle for every middle-aged artist I’ve met, who sculpts nudes from garbage, and still prattles on about how Yoko Ono broke up the Beatles…

Instead, standing in the room covered wall-to-wall in abstract paintings, is a young man about my age.  Right away I can see that he’s dreadfully bored, and I wonder how long she kept him here.

Twelve seconds in and she’s already found me a husband.

“Edie,” she is positively beaming.  “This is Jae Chang.  I believe you went to school with his sister, Cho.”

We shake hands.  His shaggy fringe hangs over his eyes and he’s wearing a pair of jeans that I couldn’t squeeze into.  He’s cute, despite the whole tortured artist thing.  But I’m too irritated with my mum to acknowledge that.  How did she lure him in here?

“Isn’t she even prettier in real life?  I’m afraid the photograph wasn’t very good—Edie, you were so peaky last Christmas.”

“Photograph,” I repeat, paling.  Jae offers me a pitying smile.

“Jae is a student at the Antiphilus Institute for Visual Art,” my mother says as if he were her own son.

“Oh, right.  My friend Dean Thomas is a graduate from there.”

He doesn’t have the chance to respond, because my Mum barrels on, “He’s going to be my new painting apprentice this semester.   He came to get better acquainted with my studio.”

_Two hours ago,_ Jae mouths with a grin.  I turn my laugh into a cough.

My mother, on her relentless mission to sell me off to the highest bidder, doesn’t notice.  “He’ll be working on his painting while we’re at lunch.  Such a talented young artist, you should really see his work.  And so handsome too!  It’s hard to believe he doesn’t have a girlfriend.”

“Oh, well Mum, I just don’t know that my dowry is quite ready.  I’ve really been slacking on my needlepoint.”  Now it’s Jae’s turn to cover his laugh.

It’s as if she didn’t even hear me.  “I was just showing Jae my newest body of work.”

I turn to the paintings and do a double-take—the supposedly abstract paintings are giant, brightly colored, poorly disguised “lady-bits” as Seamus would say.  But these would make even Georgia O’Keefe blush.

“Oh wow,” I manage.  “How... bold.”

Clearly pleased, she walks closer to a painting done in blues and purples.  It’s easily four feet wide.  “This one is called _Daughter_.”

I suppose in the mind of a contemporary artist who believes in new-age bollocks like crystal healing, this is a compliment.  But to normal people like Jae Chang, it’s just humiliating.  Welp, there went that potential candidate for a suitor.

“You know Mum, we should really get going to breakfast.  It’s late after all,” I am steering her out the door, despite her protests.  “Bye, nice meeting you, good luck painting!”

Before the door is even shut, Mum says loudly, “ _He’s_ quite nice, isn’t he?”

I suppose I deserve this embarrassment after neglecting her post for so long.  “He sure is, Mum,” I sigh.

 

♔

 

As usual, I will be in dire need a nap after breakfast with my mother.  It’s my way of detoxification.  We have gone to her favorite little cafe down the street, which she loves because they no longer implement the use of House Elves.  (Eradicating House Elves, whether they want to be or not, is the new to-do in the Wizarding world.  Like going vegan.)  The cafe serves granola and Yerba Mate and tofu and not much else.  Bird food, if you ask me—but we’re sat outside and even the sparrows look disinterested.

Before our food has even arrived, I’m ready to bolt.  First Mum had eyed me warily when I ordered a mimosa for a little hair of the werewolf.  “Exactly how often do you drink alcohol, Edith?”  

Then she’d proceeded to ask approximately two thousand questions about Lisa’s wedding, and how she and Justin were doing, sighing at her hopelessly single daughter.  She even patted my hand sadly when I mentioned being Lisa’s maid of honour.

But what really takes the Snitch is when she mentions Jae Chang again.

“He’s a very talented painter.  And so _handsome._ ”

“You’ve already mentioned that bit.”

“Don’t you think he’s handsome?”

I set down my champagne flute heavily, almost breaking the stem.  “Gee, Mum, d’you think I should go for it?” 

She averts her eyes, like sharing a little laugh with herself.  I would know that look anywhere: she did something that she knows I wouldn’t have liked anyway, for her own amusement.  

“What now?” I groan.

“Well, Jae and I got to talking.  And he mentioned how he loves his mother’s home-cooked Korean food.  So I mentioned how much _you_ love Korean food—”

“I’ve never had Korean food!”

“And then he mentioned the name of this lovely little restaurant in Diagon Alley.  And I mentioned that you live in Diagon Alley, and that you never work on Wednesday nights.  And, well...”

“You didn’t.  Mum, _please_ tell me you didn’t.”

“Well he said yes!” she exclaims indignantly, throwing her hands up.  “He liked your photograph.  He said you’re pretty!”

“Of course he did, you’re my mother!  What’s he going to do, tell you that I’d be totally shaggable if I lost ten pounds and put on a little cat-eye?”

People are staring.  The wizard at the adjacent table covers his toddler’s ears.  I shut my eyes, exhaling to calm myself.  “Mum, why don’t you ever ask me about my job?  Or my internship?  It’s always if I’ve met some boy, or if I have a crush, or if Seamus or Dean has finally realized they’re madly in love with me.”

“It’s possible,” she defends.

“No way in hell.  And I’m only twenty-six.  There are plenty of other, more important things going on in my life.  I’m not sitting around, thinking up baby names for my future daughter—”

“I always saw you having twin boys,” she interjects.  Then she sees my expression and reaches across the table to clasp my hand.  “I’m sorry.  I worry about you, Edie.  I’m proud of you for being so independent.  Merlin knows that I was just like you.  But I don’t want you to neglect _other_ things in life.  They’re important, too.”

I snort derisively, sipping from my mimosa.  “Trust me.  _I’m_ not the one neglecting _them_.”

And then she’s looking at me so sadly, and I think I even see the hint of tears, as the life of a grandchild-less old witch flashes before her eyes.  _Merlin,_ she has seriously hit menopause.  

I sigh in defeat. “Alright, alright!  Would it give you peace of mind if I were to... attend an evening out with this Jae Chang?”

“Yes!” she clasps her hands beneath her chin.  “It really would.”

Well, it’s not like I’ve got anyone else lined up on the dance card.  “Fine.   _One_ date.”

My mum practically squeals, grabbing my hands again.  “Oh, Edie, I know you two will get on so wonderfully.  You’ll see!”

“We sure will.”

She looks as though she’ll be able to sleep soundly again.  I should be annoyed, but today has gone quite well by comparison.  But my smile is wiped away the moment our food arrives, and I see the measly portions of egg whites and soy-bacon.  Not exactly hangover food.

“Mmm!” my mother relishes, eyeing her plate.  “This looks absolutely delicious.  Let’s tuck in!”

I decide that on the way home I will stop for a doughnut.


	9. Bad Publicity

CHAPTER NINE 

♔

Bad Publicity

 

When I Apparate outside the Poisoned Apple it’s in a whirlwind, ten minutes late for my shift, and with my hair stuck to my lipstick.

“Sorry!” I shout as the door swings open.

But the pub is empty, save the usual sad souls who like an early start, and Angus hasn’t even noticed that I’ve arrived.  He’s behind the bar with his arms crossed, talking to another younger man.  The sleeves of tattoos look familiar.  Whatever they’re talking about, I’m glad to not be middle—Angus is wearing the face usually reserved for difficult customers.  Cautiously I make my way, fixing the mismatched buttons of my denim shirt.

The tattooed wizard shrugs in frustration.  “I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”  He skulks past me to the door; our gazes meet but he abruptly looks away. 

The door shuts behind him just as I toss my bag onto the bar.  “What was _that_ all about?”

Angus isn’t one for proper business behavior.  He has a soft spot for me and will usually let me in on any of the goings-on, official or not.  (Once, after a few too many, he confided that I remind him of his younger sister.)  But tonight, Angus is uncomfortable.  Like the tattooed wizard, he doesn’t meet my eyes as he fidgets with his short, graying ponytail.

“I’ve got to let you go, Lennox.”

“Ha-ha.”  I pluck a maraschino cherry from the tin and he scowls.  “Seriously, who was that guy?”

Angus has a grave look on his face.  It finally sinks in—he’s serious.  “Wait, no!  I’m only five minutes late!” I cry.

Several heads around us lift groggily, and Angus lowers his voice.  “It’s not because you’re always runnin’ late—even though you _are_.  That wizard that just left, the one with the tattoos, that’s Orestes Flynn.  He’s business partners with the owners.”

“The Murrays?”

“Right.  Which makes Flynn a co-owner of the Poisoned Apple, see.”

I am in fact failing to see, and whimper, “So?”

“Well, Flynn was here the night that you booted those Quidditch players.”  

That’s why his tattoos looked so familiar.  He was the wizard salivating over Lisa, and who was upset that I had decided to close early.  But I shake my head, “Wait—Quidditch _players_?  Plural?”

“Apparently the whole lot of ‘em play for Puddlemere.  Reserve team.”

Although this is a shock, I don’t see what this has to do with anything.  Angus continues, “Well, that little fiasco has been in the tabloids.  There’s a spread in _Crystal Ball_ right now — Erm, the wife reads it, ‘course I have no idea...”

If I didn’t feel like I had just swallowed Skrewt Sap, I would laugh. 

“You know how those tabloids are.  Blow everythin’ out of proportion.  Apparently, _Crystal Ball_ left out how the players were behavin’.  What I’m sayin’ is…the Murrays reckon the pub is gettin’ bad publicity.”

I try to imagine these Murrays, who I have never met.  From the sound of it they’re right Sickle-pinchers who have never operated a business before.  They’re rarely even here; for all they know we could be running an underground dragon market.  I think of all the corners we cut to save money around this pub.  Ironically, I could have turned them in for a number of health code violations.  And now they’re kicking me out because they want to be celebrity-friendly?  Please the press and make some money on the side?

“But they’re just tabloids, you said it yourself!  Surely the Murrays know it’s a load of bollocks.”

“I’m sure that they do.  But it’s not _just_ the tabloids.”

Before he even says it, I understand. 

“There’s an article in that magazine where you work, too, sayin’ he was kicked out of here.  Y’know, verifies it.  Dunno how they got the information.” 

There’s a dull ache in my stomach.  Did I really dig my own grave like this?  “So they’re sacking me.”  

He nods.

“This isn’t fair!  Wood was completely out of line, they all were!”

Angus rubs his neck.  “And I know it.”

“But it’s illegal!”

“I’m not sayin’ you shouldn’t press charges—”

“I _can’t_ , I don’t have the money—” I stop at the sudden pin-prickling in my eyes.

He says heavily, “I’m sorry, Lennox.  My hands are tied.  I’ll owl you your final wages.”

I’m staring at the little tin of cherries that I’ve nicked from a hundred times.  This is all so unreal.  But the Murrays probably gave him an ultimatum: my job or his.  And he’s a single dad with two girls at Hogwarts to support.  But as petulant as it sounds, it’s all so horribly unfair.

“Fine,” I manage, pathetically grabbing my bag.  I’m not certain if Angus even responds before I slump away, across the stone floors.

I pause at the heavy wooden door.  I’ve worked at the Poisoned Apple for almost three years.  It was a shoddy job with often seedy customers, but it paid the rent.  This dingy little pub was where I’d reunited with Dean and Seamus after being no more than acquaintances at Hogwarts.  We’d gotten into an argument about the Holyhead Harpies that resulted in a broken pint glass.  It was where I’d had my last drunken snog, albeit some time ago.  And it was where I had met Oliver Wood: the very person responsible for this.

I can feel Angus’s eyes on me.  He really does seem sorry, but what good does sorry do me now?

I think I’ll take the long way home tonight.

 

♔

 

Inside Ashe and Plume, I am spending some of my last remaining funds on cigarettes and the cheapest bottle of red wine available.  Like an adult.

“Last time, eh?” the man at the register wheezes, but something has caught my gaze: the glimmering cover of _Crystal Ball_.  The feature is a poorly edited “photograph” of Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger.  _STEAMY IBIZA GETAWAY – DRACO TELLS ALL._ A scorned-looking Ron Weasley is in the corner.  So, we didn’t make the cover, at least—not next to everyone’s favorite fake-couple.  With decisiveness I slam the magazine down on the counter with my coins.

“This too.”

Outside, I settle on a park bench across from a small fountain.  It’s a popular spot for buskers, and a witch playing a ukulele is singing something about a mermaid.  Holding a cigarette between two fingers, I take a hurried gulp of wine—which tastes like dirty grape juice—and hide the bottle inside my coat, against my chest.  With a deep breath, I open the tabloid.

The photograph isn’t too easy to find, luckily, and is part of a collage of celebrities acting out in public.  In my opinion, the picture of Myron Wagtail pouring champagne on a Muggle’s head is much worse.  Still, there it is for the world to see: I’m screaming and jabbing my finger at the door while Wood and his friends cower.  The caption reads, “CUT OFF!  A surly young barmaid nixes Quidditch hunk OLIVER WOOD.”  There is no mention that Wood destroyed the women’s loo, or kissed a stranger without asking, or started a brawl.

Who could have possibly taken the photograph?  I hadn’t even noticed the flash go off.

With a quick glance around for Aurors, I take another pull of wine.  It really is disgusting.  Fighting the urge to gag I instead try to focus on a plan of action.  As much as I want to take the Murrays to court, it’s true—I can’t afford it.  Justin would probably agree to a discounted lawyer’s fee, but I couldn’t ask him for a favour with a good conscience.  Not when he’s got a wedding to pay for.  And as much as I’d love to take the Murrays down, I can’t say that my job is even worth the Galleons.

I’ll be back on the job search tomorrow.  Though my last go-around for journalism careers wasn’t fruitful…  Should I reapply to the same places?  “Hi, remember me?”  I can’t keep straight what is and isn’t professional anymore.  Maybe Lisa knows of something opening at St. Mungo’s…

Another drag on the cigarette.  I can’t bear the humiliation of telling Lisa, who is well on her way to becoming a certified Healer, that I am unemployed.  Or Dean, the freelance artist and political cartoonist.  Or Auror-in-training Seamus.  Not to mention my Mum, or my brothers, or Mr. Ward, or...

An involuntary groan escapes: Rose.  I’m not entirely sure when we transitioned from frenemies to just plain enemies, but she’s certainly the last person I want to know about this.

I let my head drop back, staring up at where the stars would be, if it wasn’t smoggy and foggy and all things terrible.  I don’t want to look at it.  My eyes flutter shut and I settle into the uncomfortable bench.  Since when did things get to be so difficult?  They told us after the War, we’d be stepping out of Hogwarts and right into our dream-jobs.  It seems everyone else was able to do that, but why not me?

“I should have been a stripper,” I murmur.  Pansy Parkinson had a stint as a dancer, and she said the money was top-notch.

“Edie?”

My eyes pop open.  Oliver Wood’s face is directly in my line of vision, or what little of it is visible between the knit cap and sunglasses.  “Did you just say something about a stripper?” 

I sit up quickly, trying all at once to extinguish my cigarette and hide the tabloid in my coat, without spilling wine all over myself.  “No,” I retort, and then glance over his ridiculous getup.  “Y’know, if you celebrities just didn’t cover up so much and wear sunglasses at night, you would probably be less conspicuous.”

“Hey, _don’t switch the blade on the guy in shades,”_ he half-sings the 80s song.  “Your teeth are purple.  Is that _wine_ in there?”

Of course, _he_ is the person to witness this.  The ukulele player across the street is still strumming away, oblivious to the tempest taking up one half of our bench.  I’m surprised to be halfway pleased to see him—who doesn’t love good, quippy banter—but mostly incensed that he has just had me sacked, and probably has no idea.  What a conflict.

“What are you doing down here, anyway?” I deflect.

He lifts a parchment bag that smells deliciously of Indian food.  “Dinner.”

My stomach growls tremendously, and I wonder if it’ll be instant cauldron noodles for me tonight.  It’s a lot of food for one person—even a giant, hulking mass of professional athleticism.  “Having someone over, then?”

_Is it Rose?  Some fan of yours?_

God, I bet people just throw themselves at his feet.  Meanwhile I haven’t had a lay in six months.

“Very observant of you.”  But that’s all he offers.  And then, to my surprise, he sits down on the bench.  Removing the stupid sunglasses, he says, “I’ll have you know that these work quite well.  Enchanted.”

“Really.”  

“Worked on you.  You thought I was Viktor Krum.”

The mention of that night sends a wave of heat up my spine.  “Well you still pretended to be a celebrity, which makes no sense.”

“Fair.  Alcohol will do that.”  He looks pointedly at the bottleneck that is now sticking out of my jacket and, giving up the ruse, I pull it out and take a swig.  After a pause I offer the bottle.

“Nah,” he shakes his head.

“Fair enough.  Probably not quite up to your _standards_ anyway.”

He’s not taking the bait, instead fixing me with an amused smirk.  “So, are you free Friday night, then?”

I nearly drop the bottle.  “F-Friday night?”

“Yeah,” he says.  “Y’know, for our next interview.”

I try to keep from glowering as I wait for my pulse to return to normal.  _You did that on purpose._   “I’ll have to check with my team, but Friday should work.”

“Brilliant.  How does the Hanging Moon at eight o’clock sound?”

I nearly gulp.  The Hanging Moon is one of the poshest Wizarding restaurants in all of London.  It’s located deep under the ground but is so glamourous and chic that one would never know.  There are only a handful of tables, and the waiting list can be up to a year.  Justin took Lisa to celebrate their engagement—apparently, the average bottle of champagne costs as much as my rent.  And I heard that the venison is char-grilled by live dragons!

There is no way in hell that I can afford the Hanging Moon.

“I was going to suggest it myself,” I say.

Oliver’s eyes crinkle again.  Does he find me being completely skint funny?  I want to tell him that it’s his fault; that he has no idea what it’s like to worry you won’t make your next rent.  At least I don’t sit on my meagre fortunes, hoarding them like some dragon, while people everywhere are losing money.  I donate to charity at grocery check-outs, for Merlin’s sake!

“We’ll have to wear something nice, of course.”

“Of course.”  No matter what I manage to conjure from my wardrobe, alongside everyone else I’ll look like a House Elf in a sock.

We’re playing chicken—seeing who will break and suggest something more reasonable—but neither of us relents.

“Food’s getting cold,” I say.

“True.”  He leans forward to pull the ridiculous sunglasses out of his pocket, and for the briefest of seconds, our faces are inches apart.  But then he rises to his feet with one last maddening grin.  “See you then.”

I allow myself five seconds to watch him walk through the crowds before I pull myself to my feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if anyone caught the reference, but I don't own "Sunglasses at Night" by Corey Hart (though, boy oh boy, do I wish I did.)
> 
> If you read the first version of this fic on HPFF, the final scene actually took place in a coffee shop. I'm quite happy with this version--especially because it gave another opportunity to embarrass Edie, with her cigarette and secret wine and tabloid. Plus there's just way more sexual tension in this version. And who doesn't love that?


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